


PurpurBonbon

by Voido



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Big Bang, Celebrity!Lance, Comfort, Hitman AU, Hitman!Keith, M/M, Minor Graphic Injuries, Minor Graphic Violence, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, They're both oblivious, ending is fluffy i promise, klance pinefest, not for raisin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 13:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18779113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voido/pseuds/Voido
Summary: “You’re not, though.”He turned his head back and tilted it a little, not sure if he’d missed part of the conversation. McClain still sported the smile, came to a halt and held the candy up between them with both hands, like an offering.“A downside, I mean. You’re not one of them. Thanks for this.”-------------Owning the flashiest apartment in the worst slum district of the city, local celebrity Lance McClain is all but asking to be assaulted, robbed and murdered. The only thing that tops it all off are his cheerful, naive trust in strangers, and his inability to take a hint. From the moment Keith receives his newest mission, he’s certain that McClain has only three objectives in life: Drinking overpriced coffee, dominating social media, and making his murderer’s life absolute hell. Killing him shouldn’t be a big deal—he’s loud, obnoxious, and annoying.He’s also the only person who’s ever been so adamant to be Keith’s friend.





	1. sugar

**Author's Note:**

> _screams!! I'm super excited and maybe a tad nervous. This is my entry for the Klance Pinefest 2018/19. I had a TON of fun writing this, even though it became much longer than I initially intended._   
>  _As for the accompanying art, I suggest checking it out AFTER reading, as it contains huge spoilers for the story! You can find a link to it in the end-notes in the final chapter, and also right here (again, I advise to read first, but you do you!):[Link](https://daifha.tumblr.com/post/184778163092/here-are-my-pieces-for-the-klancepinefest-i-was)_   
>  _Huge thanks to daifha for illustrating the fic and Silvamoon for beta-reading. <3 <3_

There were a lot of perks in Keith’s life. The best one? It was simple.

That statement was such a pragmatic truth, one that he could easily admit to with only a slight roll of his eyes and a hint of a smile. He was well aware that he lived contrary to what most people would call _an easy life_ , but to him, it was the definition of that. 

His job was straight-forward—listen to the provided intel, locate the target, find the ideal moment to get the deed done, leave and forget their name immediately. In fact, most of the names he didn’t even need in the first place, but there were a few exceptions to that nonetheless.

His current target—and _oh_ did he _hate_ to admit that—was the epitome of this _exception_. A popular singer from the area, loved by his friends, and adored by the grandmas. The definition of happy-go-lucky and, to make things a lot worse, the definition of _loud_.

Like, embarrassingly loud.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were a job that could be done quickly, but it couldn’t; celebrities always meant having to be extra careful in order not to leave a trace, which  _ also _ required getting close enough to them that they would risk being alone with you. While most cases were bearable, with maybe a grand total of a week to get it over with, this specific one was difficult in  _ every _ kind of way.

“Oh, dude, you _have_ to check this out!”

He turned his head to look at the ray of sunshine next to himself. The energy this young man radiated was so overwhelming that, next to him, Keith felt like a black hole sucking the light out of the room. He wondered if they could possibly be  _ any _ more different.

According to his work partner, the answer was no.

“Do I now?” he asked, trying to sound more cocky than bored, because as much as having someone scream in his ears was annoying, he was on a mission to _kill_ the guy, so there was some professionalism needed here.

“Yeah, yeah, sass me all you want. Listen to this song-cover, man.”

He half-heartedly watched a young girl on the Internet sing one of his target’s songs, and while she wasn’t bad, she definitely had nothing on the original.

“It’s fine,” Keith replied shortly, shrugging and focusing back on his cup of coffee, partly questioning why he was even here. In general, of course he knew—to gather information, to get closer to his target, to ensure that once the time came he’d be prepared to make a murder look like an accident, or suicide maybe. To be able to do that, he needed to know what kind of person he was dealing with. He knew so much already:

Lance McClain was a handful, in every way. He was loud, intrusive, arrogant, full of himself; Keith would’ve sworn he loved being in the spotlight more than breathing oxygen. Keith also despised exactly _every single_ _one_ of these facts, and that was why he absolutely did not understand why he felt at least sixty percent uneasy with this situation than he logically should.

Most targets were easy to deal with, because they were either so bland, or so terribly unlikeable that, honestly, there was no way in hell that anyone would miss them. Why bother feeling regret over getting rid of a waste of space? That was what made this job so easy, so simple in all senses of the word. McClain, for some reason, didn’t fit any of the criteria. Yes, he was on the target list, which meant that he was going to be killed no matter what, but he wasn’t a rich businessman some rival company wanted to dispose of, nor did he have any kind of criminal record that would justify murdering him.

He was nothing more than a fairly popular singer with an annoyingly pleasant voice, an annoyingly pleasant face and an annoyingly pleasant attitude, invading Keith’s personal space in order to show him absolutely irrelevant pictures he’d found on his Instagram account, laughing cheerfully, enjoying his best life, wanting nothing more than to be the star of a universe where everyone looked up to him happily and lovingly.

Keith told himself that it was the pointlessness of this assignment that threw him off-guard, made him question why he was sitting in a small, overpriced cafe slurping coffee that he would never even consider buying if he were on his own. He couldn’t figure out a logical reason as to why he had to not only spend hours, but actual days making friends with an innocent boy, all for a chance to kill him. It was such a major waste of time, sitting here, fingers digging into his cup impatiently, while there were other people out there that he should probably be going after instead.

_Maybe it’s a test_ , he considered curiously. Maybe they were trying to see if he would fulfill his mission, even if it went against his usual ideal and profession. He was, undoubtedly, the most antisocial out of the group of people he worked with—and willingly so—which meant that making him go through this _had_ to be some sort of bad joke or a test in disguise.

“Man, you really gotta get outta your head for once, y’know?”

He looked up from where he’d been staring his cup down angrily, scowl loosening and lips parting slightly to form a surprised  _ O _ . McClain, in the meantime, had made it his mission to be as obnoxious as he could possibly manage, elbow resting somewhere half-way over the table, head lying in his hand, legs dramatically thrown over each other under the table. He looked ridiculous.

“Or _maybe_ some of us just need to get _in_ their heads for a change.”

He frowned, shoved Keith lightly and returned to his phone, lifted his oddly-colored drink and bit on the straw while scrolling through his apps. Keith wondered how that could be fun, but he didn’t ask, because he actually knew that he would get a very, _very_ long explanation for it, and _oh boy_ he didn’t have the patience for that, at all.

What he also didn’t the patience for were the people staring at them from afar. There were some young girls, a few older people, and a group of teenage boys who would probably pick a fight with McClain, if not for Keith sitting next to him with a face that he knew screamed murder, and brass knuckles on both hands, flexing his fingers slowly while staring the guys down. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to look scary, but making people keep a polite distance was basically his job right now, and he took it seriously for two good reasons:

One: It was the exact way he was supposed to lure McClain into a trap—by making him believe that  _being_ _ next to Keith _ was the safest place he could be, as opposed to it being the most dangerous one.

Two: Keeping people away came with the very favorable upside of being left in peace, of having the chance to think clearly and plan his next move. There wasn’t much to go by, currently, at least until they _finally_ split up, which was where he’d make the next move down on his mental list.

_ Step five: Feign friendship _ .

Steps one through four he had already managed to execute: _Gather intel on the target. Find a way to get close to them and prove that you’re safe company to be around. Pretend that you would like to meet again. Do so occasionally, and form a seemingly mutual bond of trust._

Part of him wondered if it was really worth the effort, but he hoped that by taking the initiative today, he would be able to speed up this whole process and get to the final step as soon as possible: _Eliminate the target and leave no traces._

The thought was weirdly unpleasant, and yet again Keith told himself that it _had_ to be due to the fact that McClain hadn’t hurt a soul in the world, and that his death would serve absolutely no purpose. If Keith were to have his way, he’d rather find the person who’d charged him with this murder, shake them heavily and ask what their problem was. Was it jealousy? Or maybe a crazy fangirl with rich parents who’d been turned down by pretty boy right here?

As indifferent as Keith was about death, he knew that it wasn’t  _ normal _ to feel that way. He was well aware that it was final, that most people who died left behind at least someone who would mourn their passing forever. So as little as he cared about the targets that, in his opinion, didn’t deserve much better, he truly didn’t see a good reason to make friends with someone like McClain, only to catch him off-guard and end his short life to please some crazy person who didn’t have their priorities straight.

“Ugh, this is getting uncomfy.”

Keith blinked his thoughts away and raised an eyebrow, then let his eyes follow where McClain was looking. The group of teenagers had gotten significantly larger, and they were shoving each other around as if saying. _You go. No, you!_ At this point, it was hard to tell if they would scream for an autograph, or if they would simply throw fists. In either case, Keith _would_ be able to deal with them; he just wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to yeet some adolescents across an innocent byway-cafe.

“Want me to get rid of them?” he asked jokingly, and McClain growled before shaking his head and grabbing his cup.

“Not worth it. Kinda wanna go home.”

_Now_ it was getting interesting. Considering his job, Keith obviously knew very well where McClain lived—that was kind of the first thing you find out about someone you plan to kill. The words did, however, carry a deeper meaning than that. This was an opportunity to actually get _inside_ the place McClain called home, without having to rely on risky ways like sneaking in when he wasn’t home. In general, it just made things a lot easier.

“Oh, so an escort? Where to, _princess_?”

“So you _do_ have a sense of humor. I was starting to worry!”

He shoved his phone into his pocket and pushed Keith by the shoulder, a little more force behind it than before, indicating that he was serious.

“Argh, go already. Do you see that guy?” He was whispering now, but pointed towards the person so indiscreetly that it really wouldn’t have made a difference had he screamed the words. “I swear on my chip chocolate iced coffee that he’s gonna throw a knife at me any second.”

To him, this seemed to have deep-rooted relevance, as if there were nothing more valuable in life than a shitty, way too pricey, way too sweet, way too caffeine-loaded beverage that consisted of sixty percent sugar, thirty percent milk, and ten percent flavor enhancer. An odd guy through and through indeed. Either way, Keith did as commanded, got out of the booth they’d shared, glared another knife or two at the boy staring at them with this stupid grin on his face, and let McClain leave first before following quickly.

“Ugh, _finally!”_

He sounded so pleased all of a sudden, a confusing mood-switch that Keith didn’t understand, but he didn’t have time or the will to care about that. There was only one thought he could wrap his mind around:  _ Home _ . Part of him felt really awkward about it, like a thirsty rapist finally being able to make a move on their innocent target. Then, Keith remembered that he was going to take this young man’s life, and he realized that maybe, yeah, he deserved to feel awkward, because that was definitely a more humane approach than being unfazed about it.

McClain, in the meantime, kept talking and talking and _talking_ , throwing his arms around dramatically when he found it necessary, and attracted way too many stares. It seemed like he was entirely unaware of the fact that this was the _exact_ reason people kept bothering him: He was absolutely unable to keep his mouth shut for a few minutes, he always caused people to turn around and look at him, and of course they recognized him, and they stared and whispered to each other, and some of them followed him to get a few pictures, which he didn’t seem to mind.

This job was so,  _ so  _ tiring, somehow, and this attitude was actually going to be problematic. Did his crazy fans know where he lived? He didn’t really try to hide it, after all.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to draw so much attention to yourself?” Keith asked at some point, sarcasm so evident that even McClain couldn’t hope to pretend he hadn’t noticed it.

“Eh, don’t really care. They all give up as soon as I turn around _this_ corner.”

And he made it seem theatrical, raised his arms high up in the air, giggled and walked into a side-street, a stark contrast to where they’d come from. It was an immediate cut between city center and miserable slums. Keith wondered if this was really the ideal way to do things—grab people’s attention, then disappear into a place like  _ this _ just to get away from them. Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to keep a low profile and live in a more prestigious part of the city? Besides, the chances of being robbed and murdered here seemed higher than elsewhere.

“You got this thinking-frown on your face. What’s up?”

“You’re practically _asking_ to be assaulted in a place like this, is what’s up.”

He didn’t try to sound amused, because it wasn’t funny—it was simply stupid. There was no logical connection between  _ Lance McClain, dramaqueen both on the stage and on the topic of iced coffee  _ and  _ Lance McClain, absolute idiot before the lord practically walking his murderer to his apartment.  _ He should be living in a place somewhere suburban, slurping slushies out of golden straws and having a desperate fangirl hold a palm leaf over his face to shield him from the sun.  _ That _ was an image that fit his character, the way he presented himself. Not dirty streets filled with criminals and poor families on the brink of their last breaths.

“Aw, are you worried about me?”

At least his attitude didn’t change, because he cupped his own face with his hands in adoration, then reached for Keith’s arm and pulled him close like a clingy boyfriend. It was awkward, and the only thing that helped a bit was the fact that he immediately laughed about it, let go and went ahead again, still half-walking, half-dancing the way to where he lived.

“Don’t worry, Moody, people here are actually a _lot_ less dangerous than out there.”

If only he knew.

Keith hadn't thought he'd even get this far today, but to put the cherry on top of the cake, McClain _insisted_ on him coming inside, because apparently they hadn't spent enough time with each other today yet—Keith disagreed with that, by the way. This was actually _too easy_. He'd planned on working his way up from seeing the place where McClain lived, to convincing him to invite him in, to eventually learning everything about him and then, at some point in the future, making the final move. Instead, it was all going way too smoothly.

Not that he would complain.

The house wasn't as trashy as some others in the area, although Keith had already known that. He let McClain go first, but honestly, there was no need, because there was no way Keith would've missed his apartment. There was a huge, baby-blue doormat with a red robot lion on it laying in front of the door. Keith would've sworn he'd seen the guy wear a shirt with the exact same design before.

The interior was more interesting, though. Every wall was painted in light shades of blue and yellow, there were paintings and all kinds of useless trinkets. If that didn’t reflect the owner perfectly enough, nothing ever would. Where Keith himself would be minimalistic, McClain had all this various shit that no one in the world needed. Specially-designed coat-hangers that were _loaded_ with different kinds of jackets, one for each occasion, it seemed. A shoe cabinet the size of Keith's entire closet, small cupboards, shelves, decorations, _everything_.

"Talk about overloaded," he said, mostly to himself, but McClain heard anyway, and turned around to him with an offended gasp, albeit smiling confidently.

"You wound me, Kogane. There isn't a single unnecessary thing in this wonderful little apartment, and you'll soon agree with me."

_Small_ was quite the term to use there, because the place was actually pretty big for one person. There was a door immediately to the left leading into an obnoxiously big bathroom, as Keith found out when he curiously opened the door, secretly making sure to only touch the handle with the part of his hand that was covered with his glove. He wasn't going to hope that he would get the job done tonight, but hey, who knew?

"Your bathroom's the size of my whole place!" he claimed loudly enough for McClain to hopefully hear, although he'd already made his way to where Keith suspected the kitchen to be. Before he followed, though, he took in the room for future reference. Always good to know a place in and out, if you plan on murdering someone in it.

"That's totally your apartment's fault then!"

He rolled his eyes and left the bathroom, entering the other room that the hallway led into. It turned out to be a generously-sized combination of a kitchen and a living room, divided by a counter between them. It looked preposterous in relation to the streets outside, and Keith was absolutely sure that this place had originally been two apartments a long time ago.

"Wonderfully little," he repeated sarcastically, and leaned against the counter behind which McClain was swinging around and boiling water, because apparently he lived solely off of attention and caffeine.

"Say whatever you want," he caroled, unfazed by it all. He was so trusting that Keith wanted to grab him by the shoulders and talk sense into him, preferably before he found himself with the opportunity to kill him. He would still follow through with his job, of course, but he would prefer that his target not make it so painfully easy.

"So, do you always take strangers home, McClain?" Keith asked teasingly, resting an elbow on the counter and his head in his hand, raising an eyebrow suspiciously while watching his target dance around. He halted for the briefest moment, so short that anyone less focused than Keith would most likely have missed it, but being as observant as he was, he noticed it. McClain’s face fell, his eyebrows twitching, daring to draw close to his eyes in doubt, but he caught himself quickly, chuckled and almost _slammed_ the mugs he was holding down on the counter, raising an eyebrow cockily and humming, seemingly poised.

“As much as I hate repeating myself,” he whined—a clear lie, by the way, because he repeated himself _way_ too often to actually mind it. “You wound me, Kogane. I thought we were best friends now.”

Even though he clearly wasn’t being serious, Keith still considered correcting the statement, making it clear that they were barely acquaintances, if even that much, but before he could, he saw one of the mugs being swung around before his eyes, hot beverage dancing dangerously close to the rim and threatening to splash over. Were it filled any higher, were it swung any faster, it would spill over the dark gray counter to the creaky, wooden planks and pool around their feet.

In a way, it felt representative of the situation they were in.

“If that makes you feel better, McClain—”

“It does! Now, try your tea!”

He would, maybe, eventually, but for now, he took the cup with a nod and put it right back on the counter, not keen on getting third degree burns in his mouth. Instead, he casually looked around the living room, taking in whatever small detail he could. Right across the counter was a glass door covering almost the entire wall, leading to a balcony that, yet again, looked way too _fancy_ for the area they were in. To a foreigner, Keith would bet that it looked pretentious and arrogant, having such a beautiful place set up between so many poor people waiting in the soup kitchen, but it actually seemed like that wasn’t McClain’s intent at all.

“Why again do you live in such a shitty spot in the city?” Keith asked, aware that he’d attempted to get that information before, with little success. As much as this situation tempted him to let his guard down and believe that he’d simply been assigned an idiot as a target, his instincts begged him to be wary. Something about this whole setup of _happy-go-lucky_ -boy residing in such a sinister, gloomy area without a care gave Keith immensely bad vibes.

The small, traitorous part of his mind very well knew what kind of emotion he was feeling, why it bothered him, why he insisted so much on letting McClain know that this was utterly suicidal, if nothing else—

But Keith didn’t let it, didn’t acknowledge what he  _ knew _ would be classified as  _ genuine worry _ , because neither was he planning on getting emotionally attached to a pretty stranger who would soon bite the dust, nor did he need the additional ballast of regret haunting him afterwards.

So, no, accepting the truth about his rather intense insistence was absolutely not going to happen anytime soon.

“Becaaause,” McClain sang again, balancing his cup terribly, pulling Keith along by the arm and eventually dropping down onto the preposterously huge, baby blue sofa like a diva. “It keeps the people away. Yeah, sure, it’s not the prettiest spot in the city, but it looks worse than it actually is.”

Oh, the doubts Keith had about that. Stigmas were a thing, no doubt about it, but being forced into terrible living conditions _did_ have consequences on the mind and morals, and if left with no other choice, people would obviously resort to illegal activities.

A place like this was like an  _ invitation _ for someone to break in and steal everything that even  _ smelled _ shiny.

But because there seemed to be no point in arguing with this oblivious young man, Keith decided to focus on the facts, like how and where specific furniture was set up, small little ticks in McClain’s behavior—there were many—and how often and for what reason he got up—usually it was something pointless, like suddenly needing to take a picture of something for his social media accounts.

It told a lot about what kind of person he was—annoyingly active, constantly making his position known _somewhere_ on the Internet. Although Keith still needed a better time and maybe even place—and, most importantly, his partner’s _Okay—_ he already knew one thing for certain: Getting rid of McClain would have to be a quick job—get in, get it done, get out—because the chances of fans rioting after an estimated five minutes of inactivity on his Instagram were suspiciously high.

In short: It was going to be  _ a pain. _


	2. coat

After the disaster of having to watch disastrously bad teenager-movies with McClain for a solid three hours, Keith decided to try a different approach at things. He’d gotten quite the generous amount of information regarding McClain’s affiliates, his schedules, habits, everything valuable—and, in addition, everything absolutely _useless_ —in order to catch him off-guard in an unsuspicious moment. Was it worth the terrible kid’s songs stuck in his head? Keith wasn’t sure.

Either way, for the most important part of the mission, Keith was set; he knew where and how the target lived, the best possible situations to kill him, and he’d already pretty much decided on how he would do it, too. McClain wasn’t the kind of person to commit suicide in their own apartment, it didn’t need a genius to see  _ that _ . Judging by his pretentious attitude, he was either the happiest person on the entire planet, or a ridiculously talented actor; in either case, suicide simply wouldn’t fit his profile, thus trying to make it look like one was off the list.

What did fit, though, and he’d proven more than once before, was getting murdered due to his inability to stay away from potential threats. Honestly, Keith wondered how the guy had managed to stay alive until now without getting assaulted on a daily basis. The only thing remotely safe about McClain’s apartment had been the front door, starring multiple kinds of decent locks, but considering the fact that he seemed to casually let in whoever asked or didn’t ask for access, there wasn’t really much of a point to it at the end of the day.

To put it bluntly: At this point, McClain should honestly consider himself _lucky_ that his murderer was someone like Keith, who didn’t dwell much on the process, who didn’t enjoy seeing his victim suffer. Torture, to him, was the absolute worst way of handling a mission, because it served no purpose other than drooling over someone else’s suffering. Only sick people would enjoy something like that, he believed.

It was funny, in a way. To most people, _he_ would be the sick person, the one with a terrible past, an unjustified present, and an even worse future. Of course he knew that. Of course he knew that his profession wasn’t exactly something you would write down in a resume and hope to get a job as a humanitarian. In most cases, though, he was absolutely certain that he was doing the right thing, somehow, or at least nothing too harmful. Sometimes, he felt bad for the people who were left behind by one of his targets, but usually, he only disposed of the terrible societal garbage that didn’t deserve much better in the first place.

_ Usually _ .

Lately, he’d started hating that word with a passion, because whenever it came up in his mind, he found himself realizing that it didn’t apply to his current case. The target wasn’t some sort of corporate swine or a rapist or a dangerous potential mass murderer—he was nothing more than a young, cheerful man who seemingly wanted nothing more in life than squealing fangirls and ridiculous amounts of over-sweetened, caffeine-beverages to post pictures of on his social media accounts.

Killing him—and Keith knew that he was far from thinking this for the first time—served no higher purpose, didn’t promise any sort of benefit for a broader mass of people. These things happened, rarely, where a very influential person would assign his higher-ups a pointless assassination for their own satisfaction, but never did they involve so much preparation, and never did they give Keith a chance to question his morals over something as stupid as the quirky note scribbled down on a tiny piece of paper that he was holding in his hands. Written with a neon-pink gel pen, it read words so stupid and meaningless that Keith didn’t believe it was even humanly possible to waste the energy of more than half a brain cell on it, yet here he was.

Staring. _Frowning_. Getting unreasonably angry about the tiny heart draped over the letter _I_ , seemingly towering over the words _give me a call ;)_ like a bad omen and an infuriatingly terrible joke. 

He frowned angrily and crumpled the scrap, tossed it in the general direction of his trash bin and had to resist the urge to smash his head onto the table. Why, for hell’s sake, was all of this so unnecessarily complicated? Why did things get more difficult whenever he felt like they should be getting a little easier?

Why, for all that was holy in the world, did he so desperately want to get up and retrieve that stupid note just to keep staring at it like a maniac?

He groaned, displeased and disappointed in himself, ran a hand over his face and leaned back in his chair. This wasn’t getting him anywhere at all; the only thing that could potentially make it worse would be someone questioning him about it. His current level of luck considered, it couldn’t be long until that actually happened.

But for now, there was nothing out of the ordinary—the place he lived in was almost obnoxiously quiet, the only neighbors he’d ever seen were old ladies and their seemingly older dogs, and while Keith normally very much knew to appreciate this, he couldn’t help but feel like, right now, it was nothing more than the calm before the storm.

An enormous, merciless storm that would carry away not only himself, but everything he’d known to be true.

He needed to get out of here, get this whole thing _over_ with, but he knew better than to just do it on his own. Every single move he made on his target had to be either approved of or, even better, initiated by his partner. So far she had _shut down_ every single one of his inquiries to finally get the job done. When it came to the perfect moment, Keith trusted her—she knew best what to do, she always had an eye on him and on his current target’s life in one way or another, so if she said that the time wasn’t right, there was an almost guaranteed chance that the time _wasn’t_ right.

That didn’t make it any less frustrating though.

And because Keith was desperate enough to waste his time on pointless ideas, he reached for his phone and gave her a call. It took a while—one in which he  _ knew _ she was staring the phone down angrily, considering not picking up—but eventually he heard a voice on the other end of the line.

“How many times do I have to tell you—”

“This mission is stupid.”

She fell silent at his interruption, sighed, and audibly tapped her fingers on her desk; she didn’t hang up though, and that was already more than what Keith had dared hope for. This couldn’t be a surprise to her, either, because in all the time they’d worked together, they never had any case like this one.

“You know I can get it over with without a trace. Right now, if I need to. Where’s the point in waiting until enough people have seen me around him for me to become a suspect?”

He was more than wise enough to leave out any other reasons why this was driving him insane. If there was something she didn’t need to know about it was his concerns, his unwillingness to carry out a mission if it went against his morals. So far, that problem had hardly, if ever, gotten in the way. He wouldn’t let it start now, if he had a say in it.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but last I remember you’re the body, and I’m the brain. Am I mistaking something here?”

“No.”

“Then why exactly are you questioning me?”

Why was he even trying? He’d known from the get-go that there was no point in arguing with her. Yet even so, he had a feeling that they were being a bit  _ too _ cautious with this, that every single day they postponed disposing of the target could be the day where their cover blew and put them in danger.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Ugh, really? I don’t care if that one was intentional, but spare me, for the love of god. I’ll message you when anything new comes up.”

Before he could object, she hung up on him, and for a moment there, he heavily considered throwing his phone straight into the nearest wall, and then maybe set it on fire for good measure. All of this was  _ terrible, _ and to top it all off, his own partner was treating him like some sort of petulant child, someone who didn’t know what they were talking about.

And that was exactly the problem. Because Keith  _ knew _ what he was talking about.

Most of his jobs were simple and quick exactly _because_ he was a stranger to the people he was tasked to kill. He was fast, efficient, unfazed and wouldn’t dare leave any traces that could possibly lead to him. There was a good reason he got the most dangerous possible assignments, the kind that, if given to any other person, would be considered suicide missions. And he knew enough to believe that was enough prove that he was _not_ being paranoid or delusional.

Sighing, he let his phone slide onto the desk and ran a hand through his hair, nails digging deep into the skin, and closed his eyes to relax for a moment. Getting it over with quickly was effectively out of the question— _ again _ , because this wasn’t the first time he’d asked permission to finish things—which meant that for now, the only thing he could do was wait. For his partner to give him instructions, for a sharknado to hit his apartment and liberate him from the false facade he called life, take any pick.

The phone’s display lit up, and he stared down at it judgmentally. The message was almost insultingly short.

_ Do your job. _

For a second, he wholeheartedly considered answering something like  _ dick move, fuck you,  _ but then decided to obey, picked up the device and pushed himself out of the chair he’d sunken into earlier. Unsurprisingly, the tiny piece of paper he’d thrown had actually landed in the bin, which made the search a little easier than he’d expected.

Instead of returning to the desk, he dropped onto his sofa face-first, reached for the TV remote to put something on as a form of white noise, then let go of the remote to unfold the scrap of paper he’d still been holding in the same hand.  He read it again, his eyebrow twitching at the sight of the little emoji.

_ give me a call ;) _

None of this had the right to bother him as much as it did. He would love to use the fact that he wasn’t the most sociable person as an excuse for why he didn’t just do it, but it wasn’t that simple, and he wasn’t going to try and lie to himself about it.

Still, the note felt heavy in his hand. What was he even supposed to say? For all he knew, McClain threw the word  _ friend _ around whenever they interacted as if they’d known each other for fifteen years, and not days or weeks. There was no point in trying to fool him into a friendship that he had actually initiated himself. The thing had one upside: Texting was a safe way of meeting up, countless times better than deciding on a time and then hoping that the other person would remember. That, however, was nothing in comparison to the downsides Keith  _ knew _ would come along with it.

To name a few: McClain sending him pictures of his drinks every other minute, McClain sending him pictures of himself and his fans every other minute, McClain spamming him with messages as if his whole life depended on it  _ every other minute. _

Where he should be running away, or at least realize that he, a goddamn celebrity, had given a stranger his private phone number, he instead pushed even harder, demanded to do more stupid shit together in the future as if they were inseparable. He probably had a million and one friends to do that with, but it seemed that none of them were unlucky bastards—unlike Keith, who couldn’t just nope the fuck out of this situation. It was ironic. Other people would kill to be in his situation, wouldn’t they?

As if mirroring him, the woman in the shitty show he barely paid attention to rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, shook her head and turned away from whatever dumb person she’d apparently been forced to deal with. Keith felt that on a spiritual level, and almost dropped his phone in utter frustration. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he couldn’t help but think:

_ When did I turn into this? _

It meant nothing, as much as it meant everything. He wasn’t the kind of person to go nuts over a job so simple. One where the target pretty much  _ invited _ him to go for the kill, almost  _ begged _ for it. This should be the easiest assignment ever, and nothing to fuss over or bother him as much as it did. When had he changed from an efficient killer to a confused, annoyed mess who couldn’t even bring himself to add a contact to his phone?

“Screw it,” he decided simply and sat up, crossed his legs, pulled up the contact list on his phone and created a new one, entering both number and name. While typing a simple _hey_ , the maximum of which anyone could hope to get from him as a conversation starter, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of awful name McClain would give him on his phone. Keith pulled a face at the thought, and couldn’t even say why.

He’d expected a quick reply. McClain spent approximately ninety-five percent of the time he was awake doing  _ something _ on his phone, so there was no way it would take him long to see the message and reply, but—holy shit. The reply came within  _ seconds _ , as if his finger had been hovering over the top of his screen, waiting for the message pop-up. In a twisted kind of way, Keith couldn’t help but wonder who of them exactly was the creepy stalker here.

_ >Wow, that took forever! _

He rolled his eyes and considered deleting the number right away. It had barely been a few hours. In no world, not even the one in which McClain lived, where it was apparently socially acceptable to put hearts and winky-faces on a note to a stranger, could that ever be defined as _forever_.

_ >Leaving me on read now? _

_ >What even is ‘hey’ supposed to mean??? _

_ >Come on, don’t tell me you fell asleep. _

Keith turned off the sound.

_ >Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame. _

_ >Kogane, you do know I won’t stop bothering you. _

…and the vibration, because _yes_ , he did in fact know that.

_ >CAN’T STOP WON’T STOP. _

_ >They all break at some point, you know? _

_ >I have to admit you seem like the kind who’s hard to break, but I love a challenge, don’t worry~ _

He wouldn’t admit it in a million years, not even if anyone were to show him a picture with proof, but Keith couldn’t hide the tiniest hint of a smile pulling on the corner of his lips. It was a mystery to him, although he really wasn’t a very approachable person, McClain still kept trying to get through to him. There were probably hundreds or even thousands of people out there who would commit some serious crimes to get even one single private message from him, yet here was Keith, staring down at his phone, telling himself that the irritating feeling blooming in him was annoyance, and nothing else but that.

All of this was getting out of control.

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take even one full night for Keith to decide that texting McClain had been his worst idea yet, and he’d had a few pretty bad ones before—like threatening a cashier with a knife when she gave him shit, or that one time a teenager had tried to steal his wallet. Not his most glorious moments, he could admit that now.

Either way, his phone had been blowing up for hours straight, at the very least until he’d gone to bed. He checked the big numbers on top of the screen, realizing it was half past six in the morning, and the last message had come in sometime around two, calling him rude and announcing that he hadn’t, quote unquote,  _ seen the last of me yet _ .

Sadly, he’d already known this. There was no hope in him that McClain would leave him alone anytime soon, and with his partner still not giving him a call or sending a message or  _ any _ kind of new information on what to do, Keith’s only two choices were to either react to the messages, or leave them on read. Since it was way too early to deal with someone as annoying as McClain, Keith decided to leave the phone where it was charging on his nightstand, and instead made his way to the kitchen for some coffee.

His apartment was simple, just like him, and in his case, the term  _ small _ actually fit. The kitchen was actually only part of the living room; there was a wall and a door between the two, but it was pretty obvious that they had once been one room, judging by how tiny they both were.

Maybe, he figured, he should take a day off and do whatever he wanted. Not react to any calls, messages, not listen to the news, read any newspapers, not sharpen any valuable knives, not work on any infiltration or assassination plans. There weren’t many things he really enjoyed doing in his free time, but even just a day of falling asleep with a good book on his face might be able to help, as long as it let him forget about this absolute mess he had somehow gotten himself into.

At least his phone was still blissfully dark when he reentered his bedroom to get dressed and browse through all the messages he’d received both before going to bed and after going to sleep. He didn’t bother reading all of them, because there were  _ way _ too many to even consider that.

_ >I see you, too, love yourself a challenge, eh? _

…

_ >Oh come on! _

_ >You really  _ are _ this stubborn, aren’t you? _

…

_ >Am I a fucking joke to you? _

_ >Oh god, he doesn’t even react to bad memes. _

…

_ >Aww, fine. Don’t think I’m giving up! _

_ >But of course I can’t spend all night texting you. _

_ >I’ve got responsibilities, you know. ;) _

Yeah, evidently. The most important one of these seemed to be  _ getting on Keith’s nerves _ , because that was totally what was happening here. McClain was being a pain in the ass, willingly, pushing a little more with every single message, and it was totally annoying.

_ Annoying _ , you hear? Not endearing, and certainly not nice.

Keith  _ really _ considered throwing the phone into the wall, but he kind of needed it and wasn’t in the mood to go get a new one. If McClain kept the message-spam up, though, it might be a good way to get rid of him before  _ actually _ getting rid of him.

The thought sounded a lot worse in Keith’s head than it had yesterday, or the day before yesterday or the day before that. He wouldn’t call his partner again, there simply wasn’t a point in doing so, at least not before he’d come up with some sort of genius reason as to why he needed to end this mission immediately. And  _ I don’t want to risk actually becoming friends with him _ wasn’t exactly a valid reason for someone like him.

_ If _ that were the reason. Which it wasn’t.

Of course it wasn’t.

For now, he would busy himself with trying to ignore the message spam and not react to any of them at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days.

That was how long it took for Keith to break, and if anyone had asked him, he would’ve claimed that it had only been due to how merciful he was, and that this was the only reason he’d finally given in.

Keith was a good liar, by the way, and he knew that no one would believe this bullshit, because when he finally answered to the  _ two hundred and thirty-six _ messages he’d gotten over the course of those two days, his hands were shaking with what he  _ knew _ wasn’t anger or annoyance. He’d never been more glad to live alone, because if anyone could see him like this, they’d ask who he was and where he’d left the real Keith.

He stared down at the words he’d received and then sent, trying to ignore his racing heartbeat, and knew for a fact that he was failing miserably.

_ > Now I know! You’re a creepy stalker wanting to murder me. Gasp! Got you now. _

_ < What the hell? _

Two full days, and the only thing that had managed to make him react was the stupidest one, a message that had so obviously been a joke that he couldn’t explain why reading it bothered him so much. It meant as much as the fifteen times McClain had used the word  _ mullet _ as a nickname—which meant absolutely  _ nothing _ , considering nicknames seemed to be his fourth favorite thing right after coffee, social media, and himself—and yet  _ this _ was what had broken Keith.

So much for any kind of subtlety, huh?

He wasn’t even sure what exactly he felt, but he knew there was embarrassment somewhere in him, shame and regret for a crime he hadn’t even committed yet, and in a way, he actually felt like he’d been found out. It was dumb, he knew, but his gut feeling told him to be careful and not take this as a joke. And his gut feeling had this useful yet unfortunate tendency to be correct.

_ > That’s what you answer to? Really? Sometimes I wonder why I even talk to you, grumpy! I was kiiiiddiiiing. Hello! Earth to the guy who never gave me his first name: This is Lance McClain, captain of the S.S. Obvious, with a very special message to you, mister no-first-name Mulletman! _

_ > IT WAS A JOKE. _

_ > HAHAHA. _

_ > Please don’t stop answering now. _

_ > ARE YOU KIDDING ME _

He didn’t know if he was, he didn’t know  _ anything _ at this point _ , _ besides the fact that he was shaking with some sort of awful anticipation, with painful knowledge over the things he would have to do one day. Until now, he’d wished to move time forward, to skip to the day where he would get the order to strike and end this ugly game for good. He still wanted that, or at least part of him did, because then he would be able to forget all this, forget the name  _ Lance McClain _ and everything that came with it. Keith would be left alone, he’d be assigned easier targets and in a week or a month, he’d roll his eyes over his own odd behavior.

At least that was what he’d been telling himself.

With the flood of incoming messages, though, the mixture of nice words and teasing, he was reminded of the childhood and adolescence he’d never truly had. Jealousy, he figured, would be an understandable emotion. Humans always wanted what they couldn’t have, and especially the things that were already over. Keith wouldn’t blame himself for envying McClain’s cheerful behavior, or people’s love for him, or his naive, positive way of seeing the world, but that was the problem. None of these things were what Keith craved. He didn’t care about having the attention of thousands of screaming teenage girls, and he preferred  _ not _ being recognized on the streets, if he had a say in it. 

What he did want, however, was way worse, and way more out of the question, so he kept telling himself:

_ No, you can’t. You can’t have this. Not today and not tomorrow, and you never wanted it before, either, so stop wanting it now. _

Which, obviously, was much easier said than done, because whenever he looked back at the screen, saw another heavily disappointed, overly dramatic message, he felt the need to say something reassuring, to clarify that he wasn’t going to disappear, even though he really hadn’t answered much.

He felt the pressure of keeping the conversation up, even when there was no logical reason or any obligation to do so. It was simply for his own entertainment and for the idea of, and he promised that this was the only time ever he’d allow himself to think:  _ Friendship. _

To say he was a mess beyond salvation would be the understatement of the year, with how he dug his nails deep into his temple, took deep breaths to calm himself down and focused on the voice of the news reporter coming from where he’d pulled up a broadcast on his computer. The smart, thoughtful,  _ correct _ choice would be to abandon his phone, go for a very long, very  _ exhausting _ run and clear his head, then return, take a shower so cold that it would freeze and shatter every single intrusive thought, and then disobey his orders, make his way over to McClain’s apartment, and greet him with the friendly surprise of a blade to the neck.

Needless to say, Keith did neither of those things, not even the part about abandoning his phone. The message flow had stopped, although that couldn’t be for long. He doubted that McClain had it in himself to keep the disgruntled act up for longer than fifteen minutes, if at all, but for once, Keith wasn’t going to find out, because he actually typed a reply.

_ < I know that. _

And then, because he knew that this was in no way less ominous and suspicious than his previous message, he added:

_ < Now, whose skin is it easy to get under? _

Brilliant. Absolutely fantastic, witty, smart, he was pretty much a masterpiece of a genius, or something like that. His partner would probably order someone to kill him if she found out how absolutely unprofessional he was being, but then again the whole friendship-act had been her idea in the first place, so who was she to judge?

_ > You… _

_ > Wow, you actually got me. _

It was like a miracle that McClain actually bought this bullshit, but then again, the term  _ naive _ was definitely in the top five words to describe him with, so it shouldn’t be much of a surprise.

_ < You weren’t kidding about being persistent, I’ll give you that. _

_ < Is there a precise reason you keep flooding me with messages? _

_ < I’m sure you have at least a dozen friends to do that to. _

Surprisingly, the answer didn’t come within three seconds, but Keith attributed that to the fact that these three lines of messaging were probably the most he’d ever, in any kind of form, said to McClain. Surely, he was blown away by the amount of words.

_ > That, my dear mulleted friend, is where you’re wrong. _

Or not.

_ > Don’t tell me I gotta explain this to you!! No one’s friends with you if you’re a celeb! All fake bitches. AAAaaalll of them believe meeeee _

_ < Yeah, you got me. How will I live? _

_ > HE HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR 2.0! I AM FILLED WITH PRIDE _

_ > DO YOU SEE THAT?? A TEAR OF JOY? _

Before he got to reply _no I don’t see it, I’m a good eight miles from you_ , he received a picture, a close-up of McClain’s face, or his eye, rather, and truth be told with a little imagination, there was a single tear glimmering in the corner of it. Because Keith could be extremely blunt, though, his reply was:

_ < Did you fall into a glitter pot or why do you look like a unicorn? _

_ > G A S P _

_ > I can’t believe you said that to me :( _

_ > I look absolutely FANTASTIC with this make-up and you know it! Smh, that’s what I mean. All fake bitches, all RUDE AS HELL _

_ Fake bitches. _

Keith actually snorted about that, partly because the term sounded funny, but also because it was, in a twisted sense of it, the truth. If the term  _ fake _ fit anyone, then it was him, pretending to be some sort of friend, someone good and safe to keep around, telling himself that all of this was fine, while the world was breaking apart around him.

_ > Speaking of make-up, though _

_ > Ah, yes, I know, transition-king _

_ > There’s this street festival I wanna go to, but I know for a fact it has some crazy fangirls and, uh… _

_ > You despise fun, we been kn _ _ e _ _ w, but… _

_ No _ , Keith thought.  _ Anything, but this stupid bi-monthly fashion festival. _

He would decline. He would totally—

_ > Please?  _ ❤

_ < Fine. _

There was no saving him.


	3. net

It was the first time Keith visited the stupid festival, and, in all honesty? For all he cared, it could be the last time, too, no complaints about it. There were so many people, way too close at all times, that he wouldn’t have been able to get his hands out of his pockets safely even if he’d wanted to—and mind you, he _didn’t_ want to. In fact, he very much liked the feeling of his knife against his palm, a constant point of safety for him. How anyone could enjoy being pressed up against one another like this was far beyond him, but he figured that asking wouldn’t help that much.

“Something specific you’re looking for?” he asked a _very_ energetic Lance McClain, who hadn’t stopped smiling for at least fifteen minutes now, eyes darting from A to B to C as if his life depended on taking in every single small detail that could possibly exist in this place. Judging by the glimmer in his eyes, by his exaggerated gestures, that was indeed what he was trying to do; miss not a single beat of this…whatever it was.

There was fashion, okay. Keith wouldn’t claim he understood much about it—on most days, he was relatively glad when he managed to find something red or white to go with his mostly black clothes, and managed to make it work. Today, he’d even put in the effort of making sure he looked his best; not that he normally looked _bad_ , at least he didn’t think so, but he definitely made sure his appearance was decent enough.

Why? If only he knew.

“No, not really.”

There was a hand on his arm, and he almost lashed out, but then remembered that it might not be the best idea to attack the person you attend a place with in the middle of said place, simply because they touch your arm to pull you along. Still, he didn’t like it, being trapped between all these cheerful, carefree people, everyone smiling and laughing and squealing over clothes that had absolutely no noteworthy appeal.

“Totally starving though.” He focused on the voice guiding him, the fingers digging through his jacket and into his skin, told himself that this was fine, that nothing would happen while they were here, and that he needed to breathe and relax. It was easier said than done, but he trained his eyes on McClain’s head, on the way he bopped it from one side to the other to the beat of a tune he kept to himself, or maybe didn’t, but the music around them was so loud that Keith didn’t hear anything anyway.

What even _was_ this music? Annoying, for one thing, sure.

“Here, let’s take a break.”

Suddenly, they were out of the masses, a few people passing them by either on the way to the festival or away from it, but not enough anymore to make him anxious. If anyone were to attack them now—which he doubted, but you could _never_ be entirely sure—he’d definitely be able to defend himself. He flinched when fingers pinched his nose, and only now realized that a certain someone was staring at him.

“Man, do you _ever_ have fun?”

“No. I hate fun.”

It was a predictable answer, yet McClain snorted anyway, hid it behind one hand, then raised an eyebrow in Keith’s direction, a cocky grin on his lips. He was his truest self, it seemed. This was apparently what fun meant to him, walking through crowds of foreign people, always fearing that they could touch you, hurt you, rob and beat you up and—

“What’s a fashion festival even for? Other than making people buy overpriced clothes, that is.”

Keith knew he’d basically already answered his own question with that, but kept his suspicious frown up until McClain finally gave in, sighed and moved a step closer to explain, still gesturing around too much, still too excited over strangers shouting and singing and dancing and causing unnecessary commotion.

“It’s about enjoying stuff together, man. With people you’ve never met. With the people you attend the place with.”

“Can’t imagine I’m the ideal company then.”

“Have some confidence, grumpy.”

He tugged at Keith’s jacket, seemingly having found a spot on it that didn’t look suitable enough for a fashion event yet, but the movement was sloppy, as if he was only doing it to occupy his hands while trying to come up with the right words to say.

“I’ll admit, I totally expected you to either ignore me, or give me the finger and never talk to me again…when I asked, I mean. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

And the smile on his lips was so real, so genuine, that for a moment right there, Keith felt horrible, like an actual monster, because he knew very well that all of this was a lie, that it wasn’t long until they’d be the furthest from friends that people could possibly be.

But he played along, allowed a tiny smile to reach his lips as well, told himself that he was in full control of this, that he wouldn’t regret it, that he hadn’t made a wrong decision by showing up here, even though he knew _so_ much better. He should be at home, reminding himself of the rules, of the life he’d chosen, and not somewhere in a crowd, staring deep into ocean blue eyes that seemed to pull him in like a leash.

He should have been stronger than this, but if he was really honest to himself…he’d never been strong at all.

A soft chuckle caused him to blink his trance away, to tilt his head a little and pretend he didn’t see the endearing pink on McClain’s cheeks, the way his nose scrunched when he laughed, how tightly he pressed his eyes shut—

“Hey, how about this…”

Keith blinked again, told himself not to think about it.

“I totally _have_ to buy at least _one_ thing. Afterwards, hm…dinner! Yeah, dinner. Did I ever tell you about this old family-recipe my abuela taught me? Can’t not show off with that at some point, and I guess that point is today—hey, you still with me?”

He blinked, and blinked and blinked and nodded, pretended that he still knew what he was doing, that this was what he needed to do as part of his stupid mission. He blinked, hoping it would shoo away the conflicting feelings bubbling up inside him, begging that it would help him refocus on why he was here, but all he could think was—

 _Stupid_. That was all it was. Pointless. Dumb. Unnecessary and ridiculous.

_I shouldn’t do this. I should stop, as long as I still can. I should—_

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He allowed the smile to linger just a little longer, knowing that it wasn’t right, and took a deep breath to calm himself down, preparing himself to return into the mass of people one more time before they’d finally leave. It was fine. He was fine.

“I’m fine.”

He was anything but fine.

Buying _at least one thing_ turned out to be buying something-something twenty or thirty things, but in all honesty, Keith was quite impressed by the speed with which McClain dashed through the crowds, stopped shortly, bought accessory after accessory, stuffed them in his coat pockets, and immediately went on at a pace that almost caused Keith to lose him no less than _three times_. So much for being worried about fangirls, huh?

When they eventually, _finally_ left the place for good, he couldn’t stop the very grateful sigh that left his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tired, and that meant something, considering that he regularly had to skip on sleep in order to complete an assignment successfully. He knew what sleep-deprivation meant, and it was very far from the reason why he was so exhausted right now. In fact, he felt more awake than he had all day, just…knackered. Absolutely and entirely whacked.

“Remind me why you consider this fun?” he asked rhetorically, and really, _really_ hoped he wouldn’t get an answer to it, because he didn’t _actually_ want to know. Didn’t think he’d understand, no matter how hard McClain could possibly try.

“I admit it comes with downsides.”

His voice was awkwardly quiet, his mind seemingly focused on something else, and it caused Keith to look over while they kept walking. McClain was balancing something on one finger, using a second one to make sure it stayed steady in the air, defying gravity. It looked like some sort of candy, covered in a ridiculously-colored wrapper; pink with doodled hearts on it. All things considered, he’d probably gotten it from a concerned old lady after giving her one of his pleasant smiles, the kind that Keith was sure weakened every heart, and certainly not only his own.

He forced a groan back down his throat before it could leave his lips, looked away and squinted, mad at himself for letting it in, for allowing these thoughts he knew had no place in his mind.

“You’re not, though.”

He turned his head back and tilted it a little, not sure if he’d missed part of the conversation. McClain still sported the smile, came to a halt and held the candy up between them with both hands, like an offering.

“A downside, I mean. You’re not one of them. Thanks for this.”

And that was where it hit Keith like a brick, mercilessly, like a fist swinging in his face, and— _Oh_ —Oh God, no, this couldn’t—this wasn’t _happening—_

He was screwed.

Keith reached out without planning to. Accepted the bonbon without ever looking at it, eyes hooked onto those shining bright under the streetlights, filling him with a foreign sense of hope and need, with the longing for something he couldn’t quite define. It was all new—strange, foreign, scary in a way, but he wanted it anyway.

He wasn’t _supposed_ to want anything.

“Yeah,” he heard his own voice say, way softer than intended. “You’re welcome.”

He was so, _so_ screwed.

“So, uh…”

Keith blinked, realized that he’d been staring, and hummed shortly as confirmation that he was listening.

“I guess I went on a little spree there. Sorry. Uh, dinner still?”

It was an opportunity where he didn’t deserve one, another chance to blow this whole thing off, decline, go home, smash his fist and head into the wall until he’d come to his senses, and distance himself enough to clear his head. It was still, first and foremost, a goddamn murder-assignment, and not some sort of vacation.

But Keith was dumb, and out of his mind, and stuck between his professionalism and the strange sensation of _desire,_ and he could’ve sworn that it robbed him of all sense of control, because when he opened his mouth to get out of this situation, call it a day and promise himself never to let it come this far again, all he managed to say was:

“Sure.”

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

The only solace Keith was allowed to feel that night was the fact that they weren’t having dinner in any sort of fancy restaurant, but instead headed in a direction he knew very well by now. He didn’t mention how much it relaxed him, but apparently it was obvious enough, maybe by the way his posture switched from stressed to relieved the further they got away from all the people.

“You know what just hit me?” McClain asked cheerfully while they climbed the stairs up to his apartment. Keith found it unnecessary to confirm that he was listening, or that he _didn’t_ know, because obviously he didn’t, since he wasn’t in McClain’s head, but when there was no explanation, he sighed and hummed, trying to sound as interested as he could possibly manage.

Perhaps he whispered a small _attention whore_ under his breath, but it went unheard or ignored. He was fine with either of those options.

“I’m being all nice and open, inviting you in, telling you so much about myself, and you _still_ didn’t tell me your name. Isn’t that odd?”

“No. Why? Last names are fine, it’s the base I always work from.”

_Last names aren’t personal, last names allow me to pretend all of this is casual and fine and there’s absolutely no uncontrollable vibration sparkling on my fingertips and I definitely don’t want to reach out and—_

“Uh…huh. I thought you were kidding when you said you don’t do this regularly. Figured you just felt like beating that guy up, for fun or some shit.”

 _That guy_ having been Keith’s safe ticket into the close proximity of his target—Target, target, target, and don’t you _forget it_ —back then. Truth be told, there was always a pleasant kind of satisfaction in knocking out a preposterous asshole who thought they had the right to intrude someone’s privacy simply because they were a celebrity. _For fun_ still wasn’t the term Keith would use for it.

“What?” he teased, hoping that his voice didn’t give away his uncertainty. “Don’t I sport the bodyguard build enough for you to believe me?”

“Oh, you sport the build alright, don’t worry.”

They both entered the apartment, a fresh smell welcoming them. Fruit. Orange? Maybe grapefruit. It tickled a little in Keith’s nose, like those intense air fresheners that did a poor job at actually freshening the air, but a splendid one at burning like hell in your nostrils. He wasn’t sure how much he liked it, but said nothing.

“I guess I’m just wondering why you do this…in your free time? Couldn’t you make a living out of it?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I prefer doing it when…I feel like it?”

Because he was _totally_ feeling like doing all this. Absolutely. With his whole fucking heart and soul.

“Oho. Ain’t you a softy. Feel like it’s your duty to save people or something?”

If he were anyone but himself, Keith would probably explode with laughter at that. Those words were the single worst definition of himself he’d _ever_ heard in his entire life, and he’d heard people say a lot of shit about him, especially during his teenager years. It was _hysterical_ , and if he didn’t have at least the tiniest bit of control over himself, he would probably take this opportunity and spill it all. The truth, his intentions, his plans.

Good thing he still had a bit of control. Not much, but enough.

“Something like that.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, made him want to shove the words right back down his throat so he could choke on them pathetically, an allegory of himself, a metaphor of who he truly was. Fake. Horrible. Despicable.

Doomed to fall, fall, never stop falling—

“You, uh…”

He shook his head to free it, but it didn’t help. The thoughts kept flooding his tired mind—Doubt, anger, frustration.

“Ain’t gonna judge if you just…stand there, but I promise literally anywhere in here is more comfortable than this. You know that, actually.”

Right. Time to move, away from the door that still offered him the chance to turn around and run away, move out of the city and country and maybe right into the vast emptiness of space, and float around in it until he could die a pitiful, pointless death, but at least then he wouldn’t be able to fuck this whole ordeal up even worse, and that in itself would be absolutely fucking wonderful.

Needless to say, Keith didn’t turn around to set that flawless plan into motion. He didn’t move either, though, not when McClain disappeared into the living room, and not when he peeked back out into the hall with a skeptical frown on his face.

“Okay, I take it back,” he said with a hint of annoyance to his voice, already reemerging . “I _am_ gonna judge if you keep standing there. You’re a fucking cryptid sometimes. God, don’t tell me you chase after Mothman during full moon or some crap.”

Keith felt the need to shut him down for that, just raise an eyebrow and say a polite, but definite _you’re nuts_. He definitely didn’t plan to keep the conversation going, or, even worse, tease back.

Yet here he was, cocky smirk playing around his lips.

“Actually, Mothman’s appearances are unrelated to the moon. In fact, he’s probably easier to spot on a moonless night, with his glowing red eyes and all.”

“Oh my god.”

McClain did his best to keep the _annoyed_ act up, but a grin was already playing around the corners of his lips. Still, he seemed to be done waiting, crossed the distance between them and, yet again, invaded Keith’s privacy with touch. Hands on his bomber jacket, pulling down the zipper, then reaching up to his shoulders to pull it off.

Impatient. Forceful. With a lot of imagination, maybe even _aggressive_. It should have easily activated Keith’s fight-or-flight-instinct, but he didn’t mind, didn’t even _care_ , just let it happen and followed the motion when his jacket was hung up on the owl-design coat hook right next to the door.

“There. Wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

The annoyance was gone, the grin now in full bloom on McClain’s face, but he didn’t risk Keith staying in the hallway a second time, instead grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him along, a prickling burn biting deep into Keith’s skin where they touched.

 _It’s because it’s unfamiliar_ , he lied to himself, a pointless deed, as he knew full-well that it was a load of crap. _You’re not electrified, you’re not losing your calm over this. You’re just not used to this. Not used to this, not used to this, not used—_

“Tea?”

He blinked, thankful for the distraction, and nodded before fully registering the question, then noticed that he was now standing in the open, the hand gone from his wrist, the sensation lingering. He wanted it back, the warmth of fingers on his skin, the feeling of something fending off the cold air around him.

Was it the air? He didn’t know, he couldn’t tell, maybe it came from inside instead, maybe it had always been in him and he’d simply ignored it—

“For heaven’s sake, what’s up?”

He flinched, shook his head and supported himself on the counter, dug his fingers a little too deep into it, failed at trying to control their trembling. It wouldn’t go unnoticed, but he couldn’t let go either, couldn’t push himself away and save the situation, because it was too late. It had been too late long before coming here, before agreeing to meet up, before typing the digits into his phone with shaking fingers. It had been too late long before any of it had even started.

“Okay, I get it.”

_You get nothing. You get fucking nothing—_

“Could’ve just told me. Could’ve just said _you’re pushing it, McClain_ , and I would’ve shut up—I mean, I wouldn’t have, you know me well enough for that, but you get what I’m saying. You don’t have to pretend you want to be here, man.”

And Keith couldn’t hold it in, spluttering laughter escaping his lips before he could slap his free hand over them. Wouldn’t it be great if it were that simple? If all he needed to do was say _I want to leave_ and then do it and not return? God, he’d love that.

If it were true. Which it wasn’t. Because, really? He would’ve liked being here, as much as he hated admitting it, if only the circumstances were any better.

“It’s not—” he breathed, kept staring at the faint outline of coffee stain on the white counter, focused on it as if he needed to, in order to save his own life. “It’s not your fault. I’m not…I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

Another lie—like so many he’d told today, like all the others he would tell in the future.

“Hey, uh…I’m sorry.”

A hand on his wrist, right where he’d secretly been craving it. His breath slowed down immediately, which was odd, because he hadn’t felt it quicken in the first place.

“You’re fine. Freaking me out like hell, but—Here.”

He didn’t quite manage to turn his head before he was pulled into a tight hug. His instincts screamed at him to run, run, _run_ , but he didn’t, couldn’t, leaned into it instead, let go of the counter and silently hoped that the floor would swallow him up very, _very_ soon to end this misery. Not that he believed it would. Alleged cryptid-hunter or not, Keith wasn’t delusional, and he didn’t believe in miracles, and he barely managed to hold back an annoyed growl, because where exactly did he dig up the spare time to even be _thinking_ about this shit?

Deep breath. In, out, stall…in, out, stall. It didn’t help much, but the little it did was enough for him to regain his composure, pull himself out of the hug and get a little distance between them. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He couldn’t lose his cool, not now, not _ever_ , and especially not _here._

“I’m fine,” he insisted, rubbed his temple to counter the aggressive headache that was starting to bloom somewhere behind his eyes, and took a deep breath before forcing a half-hearted smile on his lips, wholly aware that he was doing a terrible job at covering his shit up.

At least there was always the possibility of blaming anxiety. Social aversion, something simple like that. A lie that should be easy to say, but instead he said nothing, let his eyes follow to where McClain was pointing—the center of the room, the preposterously huge sofa looking like an over-sized throne. That…wasn’t too bad of an idea. Any bit of distance between them was favorable, so Keith nodded shortly and made his way over, feeling like a nuisance, like a stain on an otherwise flawless picture. If it hadn’t been for him, for his plan, his mission, his general _existence_ in this very place, then maybe…

Maybe there could have been someone else where he was right now, head laying on the backrest of a way too comfortable sofa, someone who _deserved_ to occupy this space. A friend. Someone to joke and laugh and have fun with.

Just someone…

Someone better.

He frowned at his own emotional instability, the invasive thoughts he wasn’t trying hard enough to stop, the self-deprecation that clouded his better judgment, the haunting _wish_ , the uncontrollable _longing._ He gripped one of the soft pillows, and he was very tempted to press it to his face forcefully. His hands were shaking, trembling, sparks flooding them like a thunderstorm, and he let go, let the cushion fall into his lap, eyes fixed on his fingers that were searching, finding nothing but emptiness. Around him. Inside him.

“Aaaand he’s grumpy again.”

A body dramatically dropped down right next to his, too close yet too far, and he had to resist the urge to reach out for it. A hand touched his shoulder blade, rubbed it gently before moving further, all the way over his back and to his other arm, rested there patiently until he let out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, then pulled him in a little.

Through that action alone, he became hyper-aware of _everything_ . The clock ticking away on the wall, the sound of their breaths, the twilight sun shining in through the balcony door, their feet touching, their legs brushing, their hips so close together that it couldn’t have been much longer until they would melt together, and he craved it, _god_ did he crave it—

But there was more, and it wasn’t half as pleasant.

Right above their thighs, he felt the reassuring pressure of his knife in his pocket. In his sock, pressed against his heel, there was the tickle of another small blade, lying against bare skin, a reassurance, a _what-if_.

Neither of those calmed him down like they usually did—if anything, they made him feel worse.

“You doin’ any better?”

He nodded on pure instinct, didn’t care that he was lying. What else was he supposed to do? Cry his heart out? Not in a million years. Not as long as he still had any sense of pride and dignity. It wasn’t enough to deny the touch, not enough to lean away or flee or try to get away from the warmth engulfing him wholly, but enough for him to keep pretending.

And if pretending was what he needed to do until this job was done…well, then pretend he would.

 

* * *

 

The amount of hours that passed was a bit pathetic, a bit endearing, and a whole lot worrying, but Keith would have had to lie if he’d said he cared. It was a one-time thing, an exception, at least that was what he kept telling himself. It wasn’t bad, because it wouldn’t happen again. It wasn’t problematic, because he wouldn’t allow it to be.

That, however, was a _highly_ poor excuse for the position they ended up in, somehow very close to what could be called _snuggled up_ on the sofa, the TV providing white noise, barely loud enough to even be heard, a pair of hands wrapped around Keith’s torso, a head on his shoulder, a sound that came way too close to a _purr_ reaching his ears.

God, it was a _horrible_ excuse. And the worst part? He didn’t give a single fuck.

Because it felt fucking nice.

So nice, in fact, that some absolutely moronic part of his brain decided to make everything even worse, to force the rest of his dignity down the drain and say the stupidest thing he could possibly say.

“It’s Keith.”

The head on his shoulder twisted slightly, hair tickling the skin on his neck, and the hum following it sounded equal parts confused and surprised. He snorted, but said it anyway:

“My name.”

“Oh.”

Fingers dug a little deeper into his side, clinging onto him as if he were a lifeline, a low, content sigh vibrating against his ear, and he liked it, _he liked it he liked it helikedit_ , liked it way too much, felt his body ease and his mind relax and for a moment, he could tell himself that he would be alright, that none of this was going to stop him. He could allow himself this short break, this momentary interlude, and still be sure that he’d accomplish his mission. He wouldn’t crack. He wouldn’t regret.

Whatever happened, he would go through with this.


	4. feel

For how organized a person Keith was, it still somehow managed to catch him off-guard when he got the call he’d been both begging and fearing to get for the past few weeks. After how much and often he’d insisted on getting the okay to go through with his mission, he wished he could admit what he felt when he picked up his phone, raised it to his ear skeptically, and heard nothing but:

“I’ve calculated the chances. Target’s alone in their apartment, after meeting a friend earlier. Said friend currently lives by themselves, no alibi, enough of a hypothetical reason to kill him. Here’s the permission you’ve been waiting for—go, get it over with.”

He almost choked on nothing at that, shook his head to clear it and took a deep breath before attempting to answer. This was the worst time to show any kind of doubt about anything going on; he’d kept it to himself until now, and he wouldn’t falter at the finishing line. Even if his mind rebelled against it all. Even if he wanted nothing more than to stop time and find another way.

“You there, Keith?”

_ For fuck’s sake. _

“Yeah, copy.” His voice didn’t even shake, which he was proud of, in a way. “I’m still a bit far away, though. Keep me updated if anything comes up.”

“Sure. Put on the comm and I’ll let you know.”

He hung up, hoped that he hadn’t accidentally given anything about his insecurity away, and reached for his pocket, where he had a small communicator stored in a tiny box. It looked like hardly more than a single earphone, but included a tracker and a microphone, all neatly hidden under his hair now. He knew he needed to turn it on soon to not raise any suspicion, but before that, he allowed himself to drop down on the bench right next to himself, in the middle of an unoccupied park, and couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to deserve any of this.

The irony caused him to chuckle. As a killer, he really wasn’t in the position to think something like that.

Now, after he’d been waiting for it so impatiently, hoping that the day would come soon, he felt his muscles rebel against his thoughts, knew that his body and mind weren’t agreeing on what they should do. He wanted to get up, make his way over to McClain’s apartment, and dispose of him in a quick, painless, smooth way, without leaving a trace, without looking back, without ever wasting a single thought on him ever again. That would be the easiest way to deal with it, the smartest one, the _only one_ that should matter. Needless to say, it was also the very _last_ thing Keith wanted to do. Perhaps it would have been easier to just stay in place, not move an inch for an hour or two or five, ignore all incoming calls he would receive, and pretend that all of this had never happened.

Of course he couldn’t do that. Of course he  _ wouldn’t _ do that. For a short, personal moment, though, the idea was tempting, and he considered it, albeit knowing that it was nothing but wild ideas. In a few minutes, when he’d calmed down, none of it would even matter anymore. Not his shaking hands, not the pain, nothing at all.

“Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for?” he asked himself, staring up into the dark night sky with a terribly melancholic feeling in his stomach. He’d never before been so reluctant on a job, he’d never given himself the chance to sit down and think: _Wow. I’m going to murder someone. I’m going to take their life and everything that ever mattered to them, and I’m going to tell myself that it’s the right thing to do._

It  _ wasn’t _ the right thing to do. Everything in him screamed to understand this, to make some sort of exception and refuse to do it, but he was too stubborn for that. Carrying his missions out without doubt and without second thoughts was his profession, the number one rule for a hitman. If he let his conflicting feelings get the best of him, then it was only a matter of time until he’d pay for it dearly.

His phone rang, but he ignored it. It kept ringing, long enough to make him angry, but he only reached into his pocket to turn the sound off. Instead of his phone, he felt something else, which was odd, because he always made sure to keep the jacket pockets empty except for the utmost necessities. He dug out whatever it was that shouldn’t be in there, and found a single bonbon, wrapped in pastel-pink foil with small hearts as a pattern.

It really shouldn’t bother him—it was a bonbon, after all, not an atomic weapon or C4 waiting to explode on him—but it did. In fact, it made him feel sick, because he clearly remembered how he’d gotten it, from whom and why and when. He tried to take a deep breath, failed, bit his lip and stared at the insultingly colorful candy with as much spite as he could, not sure what to make of it or what to do. Never before had it mattered what he thought—he got the instructions and acted on them, there was no room for feelings, doubts or complaints. Right now, though, he knew exactly one thing, and it was so hard to accept that he didn’t believe it to be true until he said it to himself, quietly enough to be a secret, loudly enough to be undeniable.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

It shouldn’t be a shocker—he’d known this pretty much ever since first receiving the ridiculous note with McClain’s number on it—and yet the thought managed to sting, left him questioning his motives and resolve. His rationality kept screaming at him, kept telling him to get up, get out there and _do it_ , but the non-rational part of mind was a traitor, and so were his fingers wrapped around the candy, shaking in his periphery, reminding them that he wasn’t some sort of distanced supervillain who could do anything without second thoughts. All he could do was obey or not, take a life or not, regret or not.

His phone rang again, and this time, he got up, but dismissed the call and went to his contacts. It was every kind of _nuts_ he could possibly imagine, but that didn’t stop him. His finger hovered over the name, tense and threatening, and because standing still made him even more anxious than getting a move on, he started walking in the correct direction and tapped the green phone symbol shortly before raising the phone to his free ear. There wasn’t anyone but him in the park, which made sense because it was poorly-lit during this time of the night, and yet he felt watched, observed, as if anyone around him knew of the terrible things he was about to do.

The voice on the other end startled him when it finally picked up, but he didn’t stop walking, and he didn’t wait long before interrupting.

“Hey, what an honor—”

“Listen to me.”

His voice was dry, monotone, a bit rough, and perhaps the tiniest bit too loud to count as speaking casually. For that reason, so he thought, it worked—McClain fell quiet on the spot, didn’t try to continue whatever teasing thing he’d been wanting to say, and waited. It was a blessing just as much as it wasn’t, because in all honesty, Keith absolutely hadn’t planned this through. Calling him had been some sort of very dumb instinct, one that he almost immediately regretted a bit, but it was too late now.

“I know this is going to sound insane,” he confirmed before even starting what he really wanted to say. The sooner he made it clear that he wasn’t kidding, the better. “But I need you to listen to me and believe what I’m going to say.”

“You’re not making sense—”

“ _Listen._ ” He took a deep breath. “I’m a little less than ten minutes away from where you live. I _know_ you’re there, don’t ask how. What I’m saying is—get out of there. If I find you at home, I—”

It was pathetic, how his mind rebelled against saying it out loud, but he knew he had to. It was too late to go back, to unsay it all, to pretend he was handling this mess of a mission professionally, because he’d long but crossed the line between rationality and emotional instability. The longer he dragged this out, the more time was wasted, so he took a breath and spat it out.

“I will kill you.”

There was no room for mistaking in his voice—he was dead serious, and audibly so, and he knew that it was obvious that he wasn’t trying his best to pull a nasty prank.

“What the hell—”

“I mean it, Lance. Get the hell out of there!”

He hung up instead of listening to the tirade of whatever would’ve come next, and he ignored the very unpleasant realization that he’d slipped up about the last name-rule. Since he’d also majorly fucked up the _do not become anything even close to affiliates_ -rule, he figured that hardly mattered anyway. When he finally tapped on the communicator to turn it on, he was faced with a very displeased huff, but could avoid the lecture by claiming there’d been people and it would’ve been odd to put it on with them around.

Every step sounded like time ticking by in his ears, and although he wasn’t running—because that would be dumb, counterproductive and suspicious—his heart was racing, his breath quickening. He didn’t know what to expect from this, as much as he did.

“ _Why’re you nervous?”_

He suppressed a hysterical laugh and the urge to clear his throat for no other reason than actually  _ being _ nervous, something he was neither used to nor fond of. Of course she could read him like a book, even if only by the way he was breathing, or holding his breath, or the pace of his footsteps.

“I’m not,” he answered eventually, fully aware of how cheap that lie was, but not in the mood to try and come up with a better, more plausible one. She knew he wasn’t telling the truth anyway, and if he was lucky, she wouldn’t push it. At least not until he’d gotten this job over with.

Speaking of which, he sadly found that his calculation had been pretty spot-on. It was hardly nine minutes later that he found himself facing the huge, ugly building, casting a look around to make sure no one saw him entering it. He wasn’t sure how much it mattered in a place like this, but he preferred being safe over being sorry, if he had a say in it.

“Status?” he inquired after entering the housing complex, fully aware that it added nothing to the situation and was merely a very pathetic way of buying himself time—for what, he didn’t even know. The few seconds wasted in the hallway wouldn’t change a thing about what was to come.

“All clear. Target didn’t leave the apartment. You’re good to go.”

Part of him wanted to answer with a very sarcastic  _ great _ , but he settled with thoughtful silence instead. No turning back now.

He couldn’t even claim to be shocked that he found the door hardly-locked, which was even more ridiculous considering it  _ had _ proper locks, some that he would probably not have been able to get past all too quickly. Instead, all he had to pick was the old, cheap regular door lock, taking a maximum of ten seconds, if at all. The apartment greeting him inside didn’t suggest any odd behavior or hasty actions in the last minutes, but it was suspiciously quiet, to say the least, and Keith wasn’t sure what to think of that.

Although he’d directly announced himself without leaving doubt about his intentions, he still made sure to be silent, opening each door he passed by carefully, his knife ready to strike. As little as he wanted to do this, doing it was still like muscle memory, in a way—the less he thought about his actions, the more easily he could execute them. It didn’t stop him from slowing down once he reached the living room, and it didn’t stop the intrusive, insecure thoughts he couldn’t contain, but it  _ did _ stop him from turning around and running, which was the instinct he currently felt like following the most.

He considered asking if his partner was sure about this—sure that McClain hadn’t left the apartment, that he was still in here somewhere. Climbing out of the window wasn’t really an option from the fourth floor, unless he was some kind of parkour-master. With all other rooms clear, there was one option left, and that was the bedroom.

Keith felt everything he didn’t know he was capable of while heading towards it: Naivety, reluctance, scruple,  _ sympathy _ . This wasn’t the right thing to do, and he knew it, and he was still  _ doing it _ , and he couldn’t even explain to himself why, other than—

_ It’s what I’ve always done. I don’t ask questions. I don’t think. I act. _

_ I act, I act, IactIactIact— _

Empty words, lies he’d told himself were truths, for years in the past and for years in the future. Of course he knew that it was cowardly, that none of it would hold up if he ever allowed himself to think it through, to consider, to  _ feel _ . He didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to hesitate, and he never had, until now, because nothing had ever mattered enough to dare and try.

_ Neither does this _ , his mind insisted.  _ Nothing matters enough. No one matters enough.  _

_ Lies _ .

Because when he gently pushed the door open and found McClain rummaging in his closet, hectic but seemingly not  _ panicked, _ Keith wanted nothing more than to drop it, his knife and his resolve and this whole mission, because it was insane and pointless and against the very few principles he held onto. He couldn’t—He shouldn’t—

Why would he take the life of an innocent man, without even having being told for what, or for  _ whom _ ? His conscious rebelled against his body moving on its own, he saw and felt his hand shake, he knew that he would regret it, yet he couldn’t turn back.

_ You have to do it. You HAVE to. You have to… You have to sto- _

He needed to stop but couldn’t, was already reaching out to grab McClain by the collar, turn him around quickly and press the cold blade against his neck to quickly shut down any protest. It wasn’t as swift as Keith would normally be, not as efficient as he  _ could _ be, but in his defense, he found himself with a gun pointed to his body so in theory, he had a good excuse.

Wait a hot second—

“ _Keith?!”_

_ _

He registered it on the spot, yet didn’t understand. Where he’d expected shock, fear, desperation, there was merely a frown, maybe even a pout. It made him feel dizzy, it didn’t make much sense, and he didn’t dare move a single muscle, neither closer nor away.

“What the—”

His eyes followed the hand reaching for his face, and he wanted to swat it away, but he’d be dead before trying, so he let it happen; slowly, the fingers traced over his cheek, under his messy hair and to his ear, pulled the communicator away from it, and brought it between their faces. The words that followed weren’t directed at him, but he felt them drip deep into his bones either way.

“Next time you send someone after me.” The fingers patiently turned the device around, voice mocking and disappointed. “How about you make sure they know what they’re up to. I’m tired of these _games_.”

The sound of the plastic splintering as the communicator was broken apart wasn’t much louder than cracking an egg open, and still it felt like a bomb was exploding between them. They kept staring at each other wordlessly, neither of them daring to make a move. None of it made sense, and yet at the same time, every single piece on the chess board started falling into place.

Suddenly, being a celebrity who lived in the slums didn’t sound half as dangerous as it had before. Suddenly, being a murder target was on the  _ possibly reasonable _ side of Keith’s mental Lance McClain-list.

“God, I really hoped you wouldn’t, you know?”

_ No _ , he wouldn’t dare admit.  _ I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’ve never known a single fucking thing in my life— _

“What are you talking about?”

McClain didn’t answer, but he looked down to where the blade was pressing against his skin, then to his side where he had a small nightstand, and nodded towards it very briefly. Perhaps Keith could have startled him after all, regained the upper hand by moving quickly, but he—

He didn’t want to. He hadn’t wanted to the entire time, and now, he’d finally lost his last bits of resolve.

His movement was smooth yet slow, his right hand letting go of McClain’s collar, the left carefully moving the knife away and putting it to the side. Keith would’ve preferred to take a cautious step back just in case, but before he could, he received a few fairly strong punches to his chest.

“You goddamn _moron!_ I can’t believe you tried to _kill me_!”

“I told you to _leave!_ ”

Apparently, that wasn’t half as good an excuse as it had sounded in his head, because instead of considering the genuineness of them, McClain  _ freaked _ , threw the gun on his bed mindlessly and made a scene so wild that it was hard to believe he’d just looked and acted seriously and almost maturely.

“And I told you that you’re my _friend_ , you giant dumbfuck! The audacity!”

Audacity?

They’d just been at gunpoint with each other, and that was apparently all he had to say about it. It was almost comedic.

“Listen, Lance—”

“No, nuh-uh, fucking hell, _nope_ , you do _not_ get to call me that _now_ , after _everything_ , after being the biggest, stupidest dick on this _planet_ , Keith. I swear, you’re _entirely unreal._ ”

He paced around the room restlessly, dug his fingers into his hair, pouted and seemed ready to scream his lungs out, but eventually growled angrily, came to a halt right before a still  _ very _ overwhelmed Keith, and pointed a finger at his chest right over the heart, right where he’d pointed a gun minutes ago, but didn’t say another word. It looked like he was going to explode on the spot any second from now, his cheeks a deep red, eyebrows drawn together close enough to be counted as one, and his breath coming hastily.

“None of this makes any sense,” Keith tried, because those were the smartest words he could come up with right now. “Why are you—How—Why didn’t you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Shoot me?”

He nodded over to the gun on the neatly folded sheets, not doubting that for a second it was real. They weren’t his favorite type of murder instrument, but he’d seen enough of them to know.

“Huh, what? Oh, god. It’s obviously not even loaded, asshole.”

Even though he was the one being insulted, Keith felt the need to apologize, somehow, maybe as part of the regret he felt bubbling up inside him like boiling water dancing on the edges of a kettle.

“Obviously how?” was the immensely clever reply he gave instead, and he knew that he’d regret it before Lance even managed to roll his eyes at it.

“Holy goat on a ship, Keith. You don’t point a loaded gun at someone you don’t _really_ want to shoot. Sorry, we’re not all manipulative bastards who play with other people’s feelings for some sort of dirty kick.”

Ouch.

Rude, but on the other hand, point taken. He wouldn’t say that’d he’d actively  _ played _ with Lance’s feelings, and especially not for any kind of  _ dirty kick _ , but Keith couldn’t deny that he hadn’t exactly put enough effort into toning their friendship down from the get-go. If he was honest with himself—and he didn’t like that much right now—he’d very much enjoyed it.

The regular, genuine messages blowing up his phone at the stupidest times.

The ridiculous smiley faces that he didn’t understand more often than he did.

The almost  _ intrusive _ displays of physical affection, be it countless smiles, touches,  _ hugs _ , most of which he could have avoided, had he really tried.

He was both a dirty liar, to himself and to others, and also a horrible person. What a realization.

There was one thing, though, that he had for himself, and although he knew that it didn’t change the fact that he had actually almost just  _ killed _ Lance, he still felt the need to point it out, even if it couldn’t save this mess anymore.

“I wouldn’t…have warned you if I’d wanted to do it.”

“What does that change?”

“It changes—”

He took a very deep breath. This wasn’t the ideal moment for him to get angry. Lance  _ did _ have a point about being genuinely offended by what had just happened, even if he had obviously had one or the other secret as well.

“I’m not saying you can’t be angry. Hell, I expected you to kill me right there, and I won’t blame you if you do. That’s how these things go.”

It was terribly pessimistic, dark, but the truth. Hadn’t he been stopped in his tracks, who knew? Maybe he’d actually have gone through with it, maybe he wouldn’t have, he couldn’t say that now. All he knew was that everything confused him, every decision he made and didn’t make, every step he took and didn’t take.

Oh, and there was one more thing refusing to leave him alone, a nasty, intrusive thought, a feeling, a  _ desire _ he refused to acknowledged yet couldn’t deny: No matter what it took, all he wanted was to cure the terribly hurt expression hidden under Lance’s fake surprise, because now it was evident that he was an excellent actor.

“ _That’s how these things go_ , he says. Keith, I really want to punch you in the face right now.”

“Go for it.”

Keith said it casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and he meant it. For all he knew, that was the very least he deserved, and if it were to help ease the tension between them, all the better. Still, even though he’d offered it, he couldn’t help being surprised when Lance closed the distance between them and his fist collided with Keith’s face, producing a highly sad sound that could’ve come from either of their bones.

It was a decent hit, to put it lightly.

Instinctively, Keith reached for his face, covered his nose and pressed his eyes together to keep tears from daring to fall from them. It helped a bit, although he choked on his breath a little while trying to get some very much needed oxygen.

“You’re…stronger than you look,” he admitted bluntly, and couldn’t claim that it surprised him. Nothing about Lance McClain seemed to be like what it said on the box, so why would him being able to get a good punch in be a shocker?

“Do you give a shit about a single thing on earth, Keith? I swear I thought you were faking, but you really _are_ indifferent about everything, aren’t you?”

It was ridiculous, because he wished that it were true. If he truly hadn’t cared about any of this, then they wouldn’t be here. If Keith hadn’t let his emotions get the better of him, then only one of them would be standing right now—who, he couldn’t say for sure anymore. Not after so many things he’d believed to know about Lance seemed to be proving false. The more Keith tried to understand it, the less he could explain to himself why he’d been expected and outplayed. There was only one possibility knocking on the door to his mind, and he hated it, but considered nonetheless.

What if he’d never been supposed to succeed in this mission?

“Since when did you know?”

Lance scoffed at him and tilted his head.

“Know what?”

“About this. You’re clearly not caught off-guard. As if you’d expected this for a long time.”

He scoffed again, rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. Apparently, that was the stupidest thing he’d heard today, which meant something, because Keith knew everything he’d said today wasn’t even remotely award-winning.

“Uh, yeah, of course I did. You weren’t exactly subtle, man.”

He wasn’t offended easily, but this, somehow, stung. This had been his profession for years, and he would claim that he was rather effective at it. Which of his actions had given him away? If anything, he’d acted  _ less _ like a killer during this time than ever before, getting attached and genuinely enjoying the time, agreeing to pointless meet-ups for stupid festivals and—

God, if anything, all his mess-ups should’ve been the perfect cover.

“I wasn’t?”

“Oh, boy.”

Lance dropped down onto his bed, shook his head in disbelief and pointed at the free space next to himself. Since the chance of him starting another drama episode was relatively big, Keith decided to go along with it rather than argue or ignore it, moved over to the mattress, picked up the gun—noticing that, yeah, the light weight was a dead giveaway for not being loaded—and placed it down next to his own knife before sitting.

“I’ll tell you how I know if you tell me why.”

At this point, he figured that he would, if that were a possibility. The problem, though, was that he had no clue about the reasons for this job. Normally, he didn’t care, either. Just this once, it might have been better if he’d kept insisting on an answer. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” he admitted, noticing the hint of shame in his own voice. Suddenly, being an executional tool felt less like freedom and way more like cowardice than ever before. Where it normally calmed him down, it embarrassed him now, made him feel like he didn’t have any kind of free will.

“Oh, great. You’re one of them.”

“Them?”

“Those fuckers who don’t ask and just kill. Those absolute imbeciles who don’t care if their target is some sort of evil mastermind or an old lady doing her chores in peace. I’m disgusted.”

That wasn’t…entirely wrong, Keith supposed.

“It’s less that I don’t care, and more that I don’t allow myself the time to think about it. With thinking come scruples, and with scruples comes—”

“Yeah, yeah, emotional instability, attachment, the inability to act, failure, death. We been knew, Keith.”

‘ _We been knew’_? What was that even supposed to mean? He frowned, shook his head, tried to understand. Why did it seem like all of this was second nature not only to Keith, but to Lance as well?

It…it couldn’t be—

“Is that curiosity in your eyes?”

He blinked, surprised about the question, and backed away a little when Lance sat up, amazement written all over his face. Seemed a little fake, but Keith knew better than to comment on that.

“I’m _honored_. He gives a shit about a thing I said.”

Sadly, he did. Sadly, he  _ had _ from the very beginning. Part of him wondered if this could’ve been prevented, had he taken his very first chance to go for the kill, but he couldn’t help doubting it. Something told him that even without the warning, Lance had not only known that this would happen, but practically  _ waited _ for it.

“Fine, because I’m so generous,” he announced dramatically, stretched his arms and fell back onto the bed. “I’ll tell you anyway. It was so easy to tell what kind of person you are, because you and I, my dearest, mulleted friend—we’re the same.”

Nothing about this whole situation was in any kind of way funny, and yet Keith found himself incapable to hold back an amused snort.  _ The same _ was most likely the very last term he would apply to the two of them, in any world, at any time. They were like day and night, an innocent ray of sunshine and a mindless killer. Or so he wanted to believe.

“You laugh, but I’m serious. I know what you’re thinking. Boo-boo, this guy is some lucky-unlucky fella who almost got killed, but at least had a gun hidden in his closet out of paranoia.”

To Keith’s displeasure, that came awfully close to what he’d been thinking up until now. Before he could answer, though, Lance continued, and his voice sounded more serious than ever.

“I don’t _hide_ any guns, Keith. I _store_.”

Keith blinked, scowled and looked over to the nightstand where their weapons lay, dangerous yet innocent, threatening but harmless. He tried to puzzle it together, he understood yet didn’t want to see it. Although he thought he’d generally inspected every room in this place before, some more, some less thoroughly, he was suddenly hit with the realization that he knew nothing about it. There were more secrets here than he could’ve ever uncovered.

There were more weapons here than he’d ever seen, more than he  _ would _ ever see.

“You’re…the _same_ ,” he concluded smartly, finally seeing it the way it was. Lance had seen and understood his antics and behavior not because he was unnaturally observant, gifted or lucky—he’d known because they’d been _familiar_ to him.

“You knew from the get-go, because you would’ve acted similarly.”

“Wow, hey there, don’t flatter yourself,” he scolded Keith and rolled his eyes again. “Makin’ it sound like you’re a professional or something.”

_ Oh. God. _

Keith felt really sick out of nowhere, like he’d been punched right in the gut. He’d been set up to murder not some sort of grandma-approved superstar, some groupie-chased social media king. From the get-go, he’d been tasked to dispose of someone not innocent and helpless, but instead equally as lethal and dangerous as himself.

“This _has_ to be a joke,” he concluded, fully aware that it wasn’t. “They wouldn’t put me on such a mission without the necessary intel.”

Yet here he was, really only alive because one thing about Lance still proved true: He was dense. Stupid. Naive. Or just genuinely fucking nice despite his profession, but Keith didn’t want to think that, because it made him feel like an even bigger pile of trash, and that meant something.

“I…wasn’t supposed to actually kill you.”

“Nope.” Lance popped the P, sounding a little too amused for the kind of situation they were in. “Pretty sure whoever gave you the instructions expected _you_ to die here.”

That couldn’t be right.

Instinctively, Keith’s hand snapped to his pocket, to where he had his phone stored. He noticed Lance’s eyes following the motion attentively, as if he expected Keith to pull out another knife and try a hit on him again, but when the only thing being revealed was a phone, he sighed and relaxed visibly.

“Y’know, if they really wanted you dead…”

_ They didn’t. They didn’t want me to die here. _

But he couldn’t deny that there were hardly any other explanations at this point. He’d been sent into a lion’s den, being told that it was some sort of children’s playground. Even though he could argue that his partner had always shut down his attempts to rush this, which suggested that she  _ had _ indeed known about this, it still didn’t explain why she hadn’t  _ told him _ .

He stared at the phone in his hand, tried to come up with a solution, and flinched when another pair of hands were wrapped around his—slowly, carefully, long fingers pushing away his own and taking the device from him. Maybe he should have fought back, but it seemed redundant.

“Hey, seriously, though.” 

He looked up from his now-empty hands, met Lance’s eyes and was a little offended by the tinge of care in them. Why would someone he’d just tried to  _ murder  _ be so careful and understanding with him? Why would Lance, instead of breaking his nose and shooting him straight in the face, stare at him with that ridiculously genuine smile of his—the one that made each and every fan of his melt, the one he wore whenever he wasn’t joking around about something for at least fifteen seconds.

“I’m mad as hell, and I will probably punch you again sometime tonight—but we should really figure out what to do now, first.”

“ _We?”_ Keith didn’t try to hide his disappointment. “Are you for real? I try to kill you and you still hold onto this friendship-thing?”

Lance nodded, smile not faltering. As much of a goofball as he was, he had this serious, real side to himself. 

“You’re a bit dumb, but I must admit—warning me _was_ kind of proof that you care at least a little.” He hissed and shook his eyes. “How flattering, truly.”

“Lance, listen to me.”

Keith folded his hands together so strongly it  _ hurt _ , growing more and more angry with himself as more time passed by. It wasn’t pleasant or comfortable, but he figured that after lying for so long—to Lance, to himself, to pretty much everyone—Keith owed to be honest for once in his life.

That didn’t make it easier, though.

“All ears.”

“I know it’s easy for me to say that _now_ , after you stopped me, but…” He sighed, disgusted by how he was beating around the bush, embarrassed about being embarrassed. “I never _wanted_ to kill you. I…I would have. Somehow. But whenever I thought about it even briefly, it felt…wrong.”

He’d known this, of course, and for a long time now, but saying it out loud felt like failure. He’d had one job—to listen and to carry out the given instructions, and, eventually, to be swiftly killed off instead of succeeding. What he should feel was anger, maybe disappointment, for his partner abusing his trust like that, but all he was capable of was  _ shame _ . For the things he’d done. For those he  _ hadn’t _ done.

“Man, you’re such a _stiff_ ,” Lance complained with a whiny tone in his voice, tossed the phone somewhere to his side, somewhere on the sheets, and threw himself at Keith so quickly that he could consider himself lucky for not being knocked out for doing that out of nowhere.

Keith would  _ not _ admit that the shock about the hug itself was what held him back.

“You’re unreal,” he insisted again, and hoped that he was at least being subtle about cautiously leaning into the touch a bit—not enough to be suspicious or desperate, but enough to cause Lance to pull him closer.

“And you’re a dumbass—I feel like this is getting old, grumpy.”

It was, indeed. He had a point.

They stayed in comfortable silence for a moment, or maybe it was an hour or a year, Keith couldn’t say for sure. All he knew was how hyper-aware he was of the hand on his shoulder, how the palm rubbed small circles into it. To his own surprise, it was oddly comforting, although any other day, he’d avoid anyone who tried to care for him. But any other day, he figured, he also wouldn’t be in a legit existential crisis, questioning his own resolve and his partner’s loyalty. Never before had he doubted that they were a team,  _ friends _ even, if he was entirely honest. As unsociable he’d been throughout his entire life, he’d never felt as alone as right now.

“Can you not?”

He raised an eyebrow and looked over at Lance, who was frowning almost painfully, as if he were facing the worst thing ever.

“What?”

“Look like that. Like...a kicked dog. Not in the position to make me feel sorry for you.”

_ Feel sorry for you. _

Was this the vibe he was giving off? That he needed someone to take pity on him, right after almost killing that person? Apologizing felt redundant and preposterous, so he didn’t, but wanted to assure that it wasn’t his intention. The last thing he thought he needed—let alone deserved—was being made the victim in this, because he wasn’t. No matter he’d unexpectedly been outsmarted, that still didn’t change the things he’d tried.

An odd, buzzy sound reached his ears. It was his phone, he knew, but wasn’t motivated to even breathe in its direction. Could only be one person, and he wasn’t sure if picking up would be a good idea anyway.

“Y’ain’t gonna get it?”

“You just said it. I was supposed to die here. Maybe I should pretend that I did.”

Apparently, that made sense, even though he had trouble forming coherent thoughts. His head hurt  _ a lot _ , so much that even the numbed sound coming from his phone sent an angry shudder through his body, screaming  _ murder _ . The temptation to to throw the hell-device into the next wall or, even better, out the window, was terribly strong. Just when Keith considered reaching for it, the touch on his shoulder faded, and he watched Lance reach behind both their bodies.

“What are you—”

“Ah!”

He raised a finger arrogantly, and his chin with it, as if that made him much taller or in any way frightening. 

It didn’t.

“ _If_ that was supposed to happen,” he began explaining the obvious. Keith knew what words would come next, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue and shut Lance down. “Then they’re expecting me to pick up. If not? Well, then you can talk yourself, right?”

His sassy attitude could get right lost, but he wore that stupidly genuine grin that Keith denied made him shiver excitedly. It was ridiculous, embarrassing and he would not let it get to himself. 

“Who?” was the simple word Lance said after picking up, and it shouldn’t mean a thing, since it _didn’t_ mean a thing. It was one single, simple word, a self-explanatory question, and nothing else. His tone, though, changed so immensely that it almost sounded like someone else, like someone who couldn’t possibly share a body with macchiato-slurping instagram-addict Lance, someone foreign, strange and _threatening_.

“Aw, but I asked you first,” he continued before Keith got the chance to tell him to turn on speaker. Instead of words, he used his hands, tore the phone from Lance and pressed the button himself, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Lance, momentarily his annoying self again, blew him a kiss and winked, and Keith had to hold himself back from getting late payback for the punch in his face.

Which didn’t help with the headache at all, by the way.

“ _Who’s this clown, Black? Who_ is _this bitch? Actually, never mind—I’ll find him either way, and he’s fucking dead.”_

“Did she just—” Lance gasped, legitimately offended, if his look was anything to go by. “Did you hear that? Did you—What the fuck? Did you _hear_ what this person called me?!”

So much for pretending Keith was dead.

“I heard.”

“Can you believe—?!”

“ _Red! You fucking moron, are you trying to kill me?!”_

_ Funny _ , he thought, but didn’t bother saying it out loud.  _ I was going to ask you the same thing. _ Instead, he went with what seemed like the safer bet:

“What’s going on here?”

Everyone went silent immediately, even Lance stopped rambling about how he’d just been  _ offended beyond belief _ and  _ slandered to his face except through a phone _ . No one, however, bothered speaking up and giving some sort of explanation. Keith was already getting tired of it.

“Green, pass the phone to Black, I want an explanation, and I want it _now_.”

There was a barely audible mumble coming from his side. Something about  _ stupid as hell nicknames what the fuck _ , and he decided to grab his phone with both hands, tightly, before he could come up with something dumb like shoving it in Lance’s loud mouth. He wasn’t helping  _ at all _ right now.

“ _I’m afraid there’s no time for that. Red, you’re unharmed, I take it?”_

“I’m fine, _mom_.” There was a scoff on the other end of the line, more amused and less annoyed than Keith had honestly hoped. “What do you mean, no time?”

“ _What I’m trying to say is that you’re supposed to be dead.”_

The phone cracked a bit between his fingers, with how tightly Keith pressed them into the display. Seeing the possible damage before it could be fully applied, Lance carefully took the phone from Keith again, staring at him openly, void of his stereotypical ridiculousness. Keith told himself that he allowed it because the sincerity in Lance’s eyes.

Keith was  _ so _ good at lying to himself.

“I think _Red_ here,” Lance’s amusement showed that he’s _immediately_ himself again, as if he was switching spots with himself the whole time, “doesn’t like the sound of that so much. Gotta admit it sounds kinda grim.”

“ _Who is this_ clown _?!”_

“ _Relax, Green. Red, I promise you will understand. We couldn’t tell you beforehand to assure the mission’s safety.”_

“I could’ve shot him, y’know?”

At this point, it felt like Lance wasn’t the foreigner in this group. Nothing made any sense to Keith anymore.

“ _You didn’t, now did you?”_

Wow.

He hoped that this was something around the lines of  _ the mission of Keith’s life, the peak, the nonplusultra, the absolute top experience _ , because otherwise he wasn’t sure what could possibly justify playing with his life on the line.

“I’d try to understand if you ever _told me_ about the mission. What am I to you guys, bait? I thought—”

He stopped, because this  _ so _ wasn’t the right moment to get sentimental—if that moment even existed at all.

Lance squeezed his shoulder again, a sympathetic smile on his lips. It felt like pity, and as much as Keith would normally hate it—right now, it was appreciated. Maybe because it was a rare thing, one he’d never let himself have before. None of this was right, so why not make it worse?

“ _Of course you aren’t.”_

Of course.

He hated those words passionately, because they didn’t mean anything. Was he supposed to accept all that without a good reason to? For all he knew, he could have been dead, or even worse, he could have killed someone who  _ knew _ about this the whole time, and couldn’t bring themselves to kill  _ him _ instead until the very last second. God, since when was Keith so sentimental about these things?

“ _We’re picking you up, and I promise I’ll explain—”_

“Wow, hey there, wait a second.”

Lance took the phone from his hands again, and started pacing around in his room, his eyebrows drawn together angrily. Apparently, he didn’t like being toyed with too much either.

“Last I know this guy’s dead on your radar. Sorry, _Red_.” He pursed his lips apologetically. Keith rolled his eyes. “So I’m pretty sure if anyone gets to decide what’s happening next, that’s _me_. It’s thanks to my _graciousness_ that he’s still alive and breathing. And I told you before, I’m not playing any stupid games.”

“ _Red, could you_ please _get your phone back? We don’t have time for this.”_

For a second, Keith considered. Whatever this was about, he wasn’t ready to question his teammates to the point where it could get all of them in trouble. But while he did understand  _ that _ he should get moving soon, he didn’t know  _ why _ , and he couldn’t force Lance to go along with it. Other than being used as a fake-target, he had no connection to either of them.

Right?

“I don’t know, Green,” Keith finally began, playing on his glove a little nervously. “You can’t deny he has a point. Give me a good reason to fight him for it, and I will.”

That…was probably a lie, in all honesty. Then again, he didn’t expect either of his comrades to give him anything that justified all of this, so it didn’t really matter much. At least Lance seemed content with that answer, if his vivid nod was anything to go by.

“He’d lose, though, so maybe reconsider.”

“ _Are you sure? Red has dodged a bullet before and shrugged it off afterwards.”_

Great, Keith’s favorite story. You manage to predict where someone’s going to shoot once in your life, evade death and suddenly you’re some sort of extraterrestrial being with superhuman powers. He rolled his eyes and shrugged when Lance stared at him with a mixture of surprise and genuine shock. It  _ really _ hadn’t been that big of a deal.

“I need to report in, though,” he suddenly said with a deep frown and walked back to the bed to sit down again. “Wonder what I’ll say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh.”

He gestured around as if it was obvious.

“I was supposed to kill you, remember?”

Ah, that part. Keith nodded and turned away, eyes searching for the spot where their weapons still lay unused. It was a bit pathetic that neither of them had managed to get their job done, yet filled him with a strange feeling. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was relief.

Then again, what  _ did _ Keith know these days? Certainly not himself.

“ _Hey, listen._ ”

They both stared at the phone, the voice coming from it now way calmer than before. Lance looked up for confirmation, and Keith pinched his nose before nodding. Perhaps it was best to listen as long as they could.

“Listening.”

“ _Lance, isn’t it? We need you to confirm the success of your mission—A lie, I know, and you have no obligation to do so, quite obviously. It’s Red’s life for a friend’s. If he’s believed to be dead—”_

“Why would I risk _my_ life doing that? What’s in it for me?”

He looked serious, but not entirely opposed, which in itself surprised Keith, because it was just as Lance had said. Why  _ would _ he risk his life doing  _ anything _ for complete strangers, at the potential consequence of being found out? If he were smart, he’d get up, grab his gun and finish what he’d failed to do earlier, pack his things and get the hell out of here, instead of getting dragged into…

Whatever this mess was.

There was no way he’d commit, no reason for him to go along with this. He wouldn’t, no way—

“ _How does freedom sound to you?”_

He flinched hard enough that Keith felt it merely by sitting on the same mattress, causing him to reach out on instinct, mimic Lance’s earlier actions and place a hand on his shoulder, offering the smallest bit of support. It wasn’t much, but it was all Keith could give.

“I…how do you…”

Lance shook his head and bit his lips, stared at the phone in his hands for a long moment, then took a deep breath and nodded.

“I’ll do it. On one condition.”

“ _Spill.”_

“My partner. He’s my best friend and I’m not doing anything without his involvement.”

_ Best friend _ .

Keith shuddered a bit at the sound of those words. Sure, he considered his partners friends, too, but he’d never give himself away like that, put his heart on a silver plate and say it out loud. Somehow, it was fascinating how Lance put himself in the center of attention, seemingly without any second thoughts.

Fascinating, and very,  _ very _ frightening.

What Keith had so far seen as naivety could prove to be fearlessness instead, and he wasn’t sure what to make of that possibility. Nothing he’d known about Lance seemed to be true, and it scared him to have been so  _ ridiculously _ wrong about someone, from start to finish.

“ _Understood. I take it the success of this operation would be in his interest as well.”_

“Definitely.”

“ _Very well. We’re sending you the coordinates for our meeting point. Red, make sure everyone assembles there by three hours from now.”_

“Right. I’ll do what I can.”

A quiet, consistent  _ peep  _ assured that the connection had been cut. It gave Keith the worst headache, every sound amplified times ten in his mind, his heart racing, anger running through his veins. He was trying to understand—who the  _ friend _ they’d been talking about was supposed to be, why they’d chosen  _ him _ as the bait, why they’d risk for either him to kill Lance or the other way around, when the idea had most likely been for neither of them to die.

“I don’t understand anything,” Keith admitted and dropped into the sheets, draped an arm over his eyes and enjoyed the momentary dark. There was a chuckle somewhere close, but barely audible, then fingers slowly tracing his hairline, caressing his skin and parting his hair, combing through it patiently. All sense of logic screamed at him to put a stop to this, but how could he, when it was the most comforting thing he’d felt in—

What, ever?

So instead he leaned into it, hummed and hoped that time would never pass, that he could force himself to forget all the things that had happened, all the things that had  _ almost _ happened, and all the things that would, inevitably, happen soon. It was delusional, and he despised himself for it—this wasn’t like him, this wasn’t who  _ he _ was. When and where had he lost his pragmatic side, the one that would get up and find a solution instead of dwelling in his own sorrow? And why didn’t he even have it in himself to truly care?

Affinity wasn’t his thing—had never been. Whenever people got too close, he pushed them away, and not because he didn’t  _ want  _ them to be there; on the contrary. Letting them in meant vulnerability. Friends meant weakness. Having  _ friends _ was the exact reason he and his partners were in their current situation, forced to place their bets on wonky ideas and possibilities.

Keith didn’t want it. He didn’t want the possibility of losing anything that mattered, and he couldn’t lose what he’d never had. He didn’t want to lose, he didn’t want to regret—

But he wanted Lance’s touch so,  _ so _ much. The reassuring pressure on his skin, fingers gently running through his hair, over his scalp and all the way back to his forehead—he never, ever wanted to let go of that, to lose it, to be anywhere else but here. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine, caused him to bite his lip.

_ You shouldn’t _ , his rationality shouted from somewhere within, drowned by an unfamiliar wave of happiness.  _ You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t— _

But he tuned it out, ignored all he’d ever learned and known, let his own fingers curl into the sheets right next to his head, and found himself overwhelmed with an oddly pleasurable mixture of blooming satisfaction and suffocating guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he heard his own voice say in a foreign tone. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he was apologizing for, he knew it was genuine, something he should have said weeks ago, long before letting it all come to this.

“I know.” Lance’s voice was like silk on his sore soul, like a warm embrace, like coming home after years of war. Desirable, welcoming, but fragile and fleeting. Where words were the cure, silence was poison, a reminder of the ugly truth lying between them.

“You’re scared.”

Keith barely registered the words, but nodded nonetheless. The more he’d tried to push through, to play his part as if life didn’t matter, the more he’d told himself that all of this was  _ easy _ …the further he’d walked into the lion’s den, the deeper he’d dug his own grave with bare hands. Somewhere down the line, the entrance had fallen shut, trapping him in endless darkness, and just now was he able to see a light on the other side, dim, but definitely there, waiting for him to reach for it.

“That’s alright. Me too.”

Lance’s head fell on his chest with a dull  _ oof _ , hands still running through Keith’s hair at a slow, peaceful pace, a low, steady hum vibrating against him. Faintly, he recognized the melody, knew he’d heard it before somewhere, but said nothing about it, did nothing but listen to their aligning heartbeats. A minute passed, or five or ten, but it didn’t matter, at least not until they’d have to get back up.

A phone rang, close but not right here, but neither of them even flinched. What was here and what was there were two worlds not meant to collide at this point, or maybe ever.

“I’ve never felt so indecisive,” Keith admitted, lifted his arm from his face and dropped it around Lance’s figure on the sheets, not quite touching, yet right there around him, like a veil covering them both. “I’ve never…questioned what’s the right thing to do.”

Soft chuckles against his chest, nails floating over the skin on his neck, tickling slightly. He shivered, but leaned into it, the hint of a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. He still had no idea—if this was right, if this was something he was allowed to want for himself, after all this time, after all he’d done in this short life of his.

“Well, never too late to start, you know?”

Before the weight on his chest was even fully gone, he already missed it, considered grabbing Lance by the shoulder and pulling him back, but before Keith could finish his inner argument about doing so, the spot next to himself was empty, the sound of naked feet moving on the tiles echoing on the walls. He reached around without tearing his eyes from the white ceiling, grabbed his phone and deciphered the provided information in his newest mail before letting the device fall back onto the bed, somewhere, anywhere, forgotten the second his fingers didn’t connect to it anymore.

His skin tickled, where there’d been fingers all over it before, made him want to run yet stay forever. It was foreign, new, and he couldn’t even say if he liked it or not. Maybe both.

Definitely both.

The tapping sound on the floor returned, slower this time, but still with a playful rhythm to it, as if all of this were some kind of funny game.

“Here, grumpy.”

He didn’t tear his eyes away, but saw Lance move from the corner of his eyes, placing something on the nightstand before leaning over him with his self-assured, perky grin and raised eyebrow, hands stemmed into his hip, but Keith didn’t really see it, couldn’t see the cockiness and arrogance, because there was more, so much more, moonlight shining bright in a blue as deep as the ocean, mesmerizing, having him fall—

Hands reached for his, fingers interlacing with his own, pulling him up into a sitting position, the grin on Lance’s face making way for a genuine smile, his thin eyebrows drawing closer to his eyes. Keith wanted to say something, but couldn’t come up with even a single smart word, so he said nothing at all, nodded, reciprocated the touch, pulled Lance closer until they were face to face, their nose tips just short of brushing against each other’s. It was way too much, yet it wasn’t enough.

“Keith?”

He nodded, closed his eyes and let go, then looked over to the table and couldn’t help the huff escaping his lips.

“Is it ever not tea time for you?”

“Slander! All times are tea times if you want them to be! Really, though…you’re paler than usual, and that’s saying something. So, uh…where are we headed again?”

He patiently watched Lance drop back down onto the bed, this time laying on it properly, as if he was planning on taking a nap, arms folded behind his head, smile still playing around his lips as if someone had glued it on. It was almost contagious.

“Small underground quarters in the city. Doesn’t take too long to get there, but I’m not sure if you want to risk a nap making you groggy before that?”

Keith gave the childishly designed red mug with a blue wolf on it a questioning look, but didn’t say anything before picking it up. Whatever was steaming in it smelled sickeningly sweet, and Keith would absolutely deny the goosebumps it sent up his arms. Anticipation. Sweets were his biggest guilty pleasure, and he couldn’t help suspect that he had dropped this fact carelessly at some point, but right now, he wouldn’t complain. At least eight alarm bells in him sounded off, screaming fancy things like  _ don’t drink strange beverages _ and  _ don’t drink  _ anything _ unless you saw how it was made _ and  _ pour this hot, steaming tea over your cold-hearted, ignorant self  _ and—

“You okay there? I’ve never seen anyone give a cup’a tea that kinda death stare, man. I thought you liked sweet stuff?”

“I do. I’m fine.”

One of those was a lie, and they both knew which, but kept it at that, Keith nipping away on what tasted like vanilla and raspberries, warmth engulfing him from the inside out. He realized that Lance had ignored his question, and fixed his eyes on him, but he was quite busy typing away on his phone, head bobbing from one side to the other along to a rhythm he kept to himself this time. Keith squinted, a very skeptical part of him considering the idea that Lance might be live-broadcasting what was going on somewhere on his social media, but disregarding the idea right away.

Not even he could have been that bold, could he now?

“What was that about freedom?” Keith suddenly heard himself ask, surprised by his lack of decency, the straight-forward invasion of privacy, the very strange sensation of _curiosity,_ something that he was entirely unfamiliar with.

“Wow, ain’t subtlety your strong suit.”

No, it really wasn’t.

“So, I take it these people you work for…you’re friends?”

The topic change confused him, but only until he understood that it  _ wasn’t _ a topic change at all. He nodded, eyes now fixed on his knife lying close to him, sharp blade pointing in the direction of the wall.

“Must be nice, then. Can’t say the same for myself.”

“But you’re still going along with it?”

Lance scoffed, looked up from his phone just long enough to raise an eyebrow.

“Hey, not much else ya can do if you wanna live, man.”

Although Keith wasn’t sure if he really understood that, he nodded again, maybe just to confirm that he was still listening. As much as it felt like their positions in life were the same, they were entirely different, too.

It was odd, the wish to understand, to…

To help? Was that what it was? The very concept itself felt weird to him. He wasn’t someone who  _ helped _ people. The contrary, if anything. But Lance was already staring at his phone again, his expression so unlike him that Keith felt the desperate need to  _ do _ something about it, anything that would turn the uncharacteristic frown back into the smile he was so used to, the one he’d tried telling himself was annoying and fake and not at all an endearing delight to stare at—

Okay, maybe a little. A tiny, microscopically small bit. Not that Keith would have said that out loud.

He did, however, look at his free hand, his gloved palm, and considered. There wasn’t  _ much _ he could do, but there was  _ something _ at least. So far, he hadn’t proven to be the best friend one could have, but then again…

_ Never too late to start. _

He sighed, placed the mug back onto the nightstand and pulled one leg up onto the bed so he could turn around to face Lance, whose fingers had stopped typing, eyes still glued onto the phone, but not really paying attention to it. The sight was sad,  _ maddening _ , somehow, and Keith wanted to see it gone. It wasn’t his greatest strength, comforting other people, but he needed to,  _ wanted _ to try. Carefully, he reached out, wrapped his fingers around Lance’s wrist. It was light enough to not be pushy, yet firm, determined.

Now all Keith needed to do was _say_ something. For some reason, though, that was way harder than it should have been, words evading him, his mouth falling open and shut again right away. What was he even trying to accomplish here? How did one even _comfort_ somebody who’d just been attacked by someone they’d apparently _really_ considered a friend? Especially when the comforter was a very horrible friend himself.

Still, there had to be  _ something _ …

Apparently, trying alone was already incredibly funny, because Lance chuckled, let go of his phone to cover his mouth, and shook his head in what seemed to be disbelief, before pulling his trapped wrist in, causing Keith to lose his balance and almost face-butt into the mattress.

“I’m not sure exactly what you’re offering.” Lance’s voice was low, quiet, calm. He twisted their arms so that he was the one holding Keith’s wrist instead, fingers tracing the edge of the glove, warm skin covering cold. “But if it’s a hug, I fucking want it.”

He pulled again, with more force this time, and Keith gave in, not sure what  _ exactly _ he was doing, but way too far out of his mind to care.

_ I fucking want it. _

God, he wanted it too. A hug or two or ten, or maybe one that lasted forever, warm hands that shielded him from the brutal cold of the world. So he nodded, scowling skeptically but not drawing away, stared at Lance reaching for him, both palms facing upward, waiting. A patient invitation. Innocent. Cautious. Careful, respectful enough for Keith to give in, lay his own hands on top of them and shiver at the warmth of their touch, the feeling of fingers moving against his, interlacing, warm pressure against his skin.

Lance chuckled again. Keith raised an eyebrow.

“Your hands. They—They’re tiny.”

He opened his mouth to complain, but Lance was faster, shook his head and shut him down.

“I like it. I really like it.”

“Mhm.”

He liked it, too, bigger hands steadying his, him, his mind and body. It was good. It was  _ way too good.  _ He couldn’t have said who moved first, but one moment they were far apart, and the next face to face, noses brushing, breaths quickening, eyes searching for answers in each other’s, answers to questions neither of them would ever dare ask. Lance moved his hands up Keith’s arms and came to a halt on his shoulder blades, nails digging into his skin frantically. He felt his racing heartbeat in his ears, heard his own unsteady breath. Dizziness chased him, he was falling, reaching out, burying his hands in Lance’s hair, eyes desperately searching.

A moment of stillness. Neither of them moved—

“We shouldn’t.”

Keith’s very last bit of rationality, carried fleetingly by his weakened voice, overpowered by the feeling of a warm breath against his lips, tingling anticipation, burning desire, a glimmer of  _ hope— _

“Don’t care.”

It was a confession and an order and a plea, words whispered onto his skin, into his mind, flooding his body like a wave of fire, a burning storm, liquid lightning dripping into his bones and drowning his sense of reluctance.

He barely breathed his reply—

“Okay.”

—didn’t even get to finish the word before soft lips were moving against his, shyly, not pushing at all, but pushing him far over the edge either way. He leaned into it, pressed their foreheads together and let his eyes fall shut, a low, content sigh bubbling up inside him. He wanted, _needed_ more of it, knew letting go would cause him to drown, to suffocate on the feelings he’d been holing up all this time.

“You…”

He didn’t notice the pressure against his chest until his back hit the mattress, the kiss never fully breaking, fingers gently combing through his hair, his own hands desperately searching for an anchor to cling to and finally resting on Lance’s back, holding him close, closer than necessary, not close enough.

_ I can’t fall _ , Keith tried telling himself, his mind and body melting at the touch, his fears and rationality fading, making way for how he felt, how he’d been feeling  _ all this time. _

_ I don’t want to fall— _

He pulled, he pushed, promised himself to let go, to never let go, to make this very moment last a lifetime, to put a whole lifetime in this very moment. Because he couldn’t…and he didn’t want to—

They parted, but he didn’t dare open his eyes, couldn’t dare risk losing the hand drawing circles on his chest, the fingers caressing his hair, the nose tapping against his.

_ Tap. Tap. Tap. _

“Keith…”

He shook his head slightly, but opened his eyes nonetheless, stared up at Lance who wore  _ that  _ smile, the genuine, kind one that Keith liked  _ so _ much, that made him forget, even if only for a moment, that any bad existed in the world. Silently, to himself, he wished that he could stare at it forever.

Except then it faded away, Lance’s expression changing to something more wary, worried, and everything came crashing down at once—Guilt, regret, disbelief. Keith was shaking. How could he…? He’d had one simple rule, one he’d say was logical and easy to keep:

Don’t sympathize.

And yet, here he was, watching blue eyes scan his face, searching for something, Lance’s lips trembling. He wanted so say something, but didn’t know how.

Keith wanted to kiss him again, but didn’t know how.

“You—”

He flinched when a thumb reached for his cheek, slowly stroking up and down, but leaned into it nonetheless. Words were fragile between them, he wanted to make Lance shut up as long as the moment was still  _ there _ , but he couldn’t, couldn’t say a single word for all he tried. Every word was a pebble, silence was a cracked glass window, and waiting on the other side…

Keith didn’t want to think about it.

“Do you always have to play strong?”

He blinked, shook his head, didn’t understand. Was he doing that? It didn’t feel like it, but he couldn’t deny having his guard up automatically—That was something he was used to and had no control over. Letting go of his cool was out of the question, he’d learned that years ago, so how was he supposed to do it now, in a fleeting moment like this?

“I’m…not trying to,” he admitted, losing himself in the touch on his cheek, the pleasant shiver running down his spine, the momentary rest. “It’s…I’m not used to this.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

A peck on the corner of his lips, nothing groundbreaking or revolutionary at all, but he still already missed it the second it was over, and then there was nothing, not a hand on his face and no fingers in his hair, no deep blue to get lost in and no warm body pressing against his.

“Where—”

“Not sure if I’ll come back here anytime soon, or ever, so…few things I should get done. You stay there.”

He snorted quietly, didn’t bother pretending he would actually do that. How was he supposed to just  _ lie here _ for hours and wait for something he didn’t understand? Having almost died was more than enough to send his mind racing for a week, and he couldn’t risk that, wouldn’t dare allow himself to mess this mission up if he could prevent it.

Arguing was an option—About what, he honest to god didn’t know. Everything coming to his mind were stupid pleas that he knew had no place between them. They weren’t close in any good sense of the word, they didn’t have much common ground to explore in a situation like this; and why would they, anyway? Keith definitely wouldn’t lower his guard far enough to admit how he was feeling about all this, the cold emptiness in the room and inside him and in this whole situation, and since there was nothing else to say, he shut up instead, allowed himself to think.

_ A friend’s life for Red’s. _

There weren’t many suspects that came to mind. Neither of them, not Green or Black, and especially not Keith himself, knew many people close enough to either of them to risk all this for. It was a harsh realization, but he was pragmatic—or trying to be—so sue him about it. There was Black’s fiance, but Keith would honest to god chase him down and kill him personally if he’d somehow managed to get himself in such a situation. Then there was Green’s brother.

…

It was definitely that idiot.

Keith rolled his eyes and sighed. He knew it wasn’t very considerate to be annoyed by someone whose life was on the line, but in his defense, in most cases, it was justified. At least a bit. There were a few things in life that seemed to go together like coffee and milk. One of those pairs was  _ Matt _ and  _ getting in trouble for pointless shit. _

Really, it was like a theme at this point.

“Whoever you’re angry about,” he heard Lance say when he reentered the room to rummage through his closet. “I hella don’t wanna be them. It—It’s not me, right?”

“No.”

Keith sat up and watched, quick, planned movements, but none that made sense to him. All he could tell was that Lance was rearranging stuff in the closet, which seemed like…a terrible waste of time, all things considered.

“What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, Lance finally seemed to have found what he was looking for, hidden behind clothes and boxes. It was a longish, black case, telling exactly nothing about its content. It reminded Keith of those used to transport instruments, but he had a general hunch that there wouldn’t be the world’s longest flute in there.

He figured that there was no point in asking, though, because Lance was already opening the locks on both sides, a content smile on his lips.

Screw that, actually. Content wasn’t strong enough a word for the way he stared down at it, as if he were holding the whole world in his own two hands. It seemed to give him a sense of safety but also pride. He pushed it open carefully, and—

Oh, okay. Yep. That was a sniper rifle in there.

Somehow, Keith was unreasonably scared all of a sudden. There was absolutely no reason to believe that he’d ever be at the mercy of that weapon—If Lance wanted to dispose of him, there were simpler ways, really—But as someone who never got in contact with these kinds of weapons, it made a certain sense of…respect rise inside him.

“Been a while,” Lance stated calmly, heaved the rifle out of the case and inspected it thoroughly. In his hands, it looked more like a fragile, living being than a lethal weapon. “Might need you…This is a bit odd.”

“How so?”

He looked up and blinked his trance away, then stored the rifle in the case again before explaining.

“You know the difference between yourself and me?”

Keith raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms and shook his head. Other than a million very obvious differences, he had no idea what Lance was referring to. Honestly, it felt like they could hardly be less the same, so…one specific thing? No, he definitely didn’t know.

“You’re a close-combat assassin, right?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, that’s…” Lance hid a soft chuckle behind a hand. “I don’t get it. Every single assignment you complete, you put your life on the line. Who’s to say you won’t miscalculate, or get shot before getting close enough? The thought’s kinda scary. But it’s got some upsides, too.”

“Like what?”

He pointed towards Keith’s knife on the nightstand, looked over to him for a second, then shrugged and picked it up. Keith was surprised by how unaffected he was by that; any weapon he ever used was like a part of him, and seeing someone else hold it like that…anyone else, he would probably have freaked.

“It leaves room for justification. The uncertainty, I mean. You kill someone you shouldn’t have? Oh well, self-defense.” Lance pointed over to the handgun that was still lying unloaded, not any more dangerous than a toaster like this. “You shoot the wrong one? Bad aim. Stress. Shaking hands. Take your pick.”

He turned the knife in his hand, ran a finger up the blade and scoffed.

“You get the benefit of the doubt. A loophole to hide your guilt in.”

Keith took a breath to explain that he didn’t let himself feel that guilt in the first place, that remorse was the exact reason why he’d sworn himself never to get attached, but Lance raised a single finger up in the air, and shut him up just like that.

“Would you have regretted it? Killing me, I mean.”

Oh, for  _ fuck’s sake. _

He knew the answer to that, the question was absolutely rhetorical, and Keith let him feel his displeasure about that by frowning, staring for a long moment, before eventually giving in.

“I can’t tell you what it would’ve been like, but I imagine…I guess so?”

“See, perfect!”

Lance jumped up, a bit too quickly for Keith’s liking, considering he was holding a very sharp, very deadly knife in his hands. Instead of trying anything funny with it, though, he closed one eye, focused on a point on the wall to both their sides, and threw. For some reason, throwing a knife onto an empty wall seemed to fill him with an immense feeling of pride, because he grinned to himself and walked over to get it back.

“You could’ve said _Well, I had no choice, I was being attacked_ or _I never meant to_ kill _him_. Funny excuses like that. Doesn’t mean you would have, but…the possibility was there, you know?”

He held one hand under the knife and pulled it out with the other. Some sort of black…thing fell down, but he caught it. A button? Hard to tell from here. He returned, sat back down on the bed and proudly showed his catch.

A fly. Slightly squashed and missing a wing.

“Do you want a medal?” Keith teased, but it was all just him trying to hide the fact that he was genuinely impressed. He hadn’t even _seen_ the bug, with how small it was. He realized that all of this was part of the explanation Lance was trying to give him. The knife, the fly, the difference between the two of them.

“Funny, Keith, but be careful—I might say yes.” He put the knife in his lap carefully, held the insect up between them. It wasn’t a very pleasing sight, but Keith said nothing about it.

“This benefit of the doubt…I envy it,” Lance finally concluded, eyes fixed dead on the fly as if not a single other thing existed on the world. “It’s nice, being able to hide on a rooftop or in a dark building, wait for the right moment to strike without the fear of being killed first. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have the guts to do this, if I didn’t have that.” He dropped it, and in any other situation, Keith would’ve pointed out the distaste of that, but right now, he couldn’t have brought himself to interrupt Lance even if he tried.

“But safety means no excuse, either. When you strike, it could always be an accident. When I do, though…” The glint in his eyes, the unamused smile on his lips, the focus still on the bug somewhere to his feet, where Keith wouldn’t even have been able to see it anymore if he’d really tried. “I never miss. And that’s…a little scary.”

_ A little _ cut it somewhat short in Keith’s opinion. He’d known and accepted that he’d been at Lance’s mercy, not the other way around, but like this, it gave the whole situation a new perspective. One he couldn’t have claimed he liked, because he didn’t.

“Why…are you telling me this?” he asked instead. There was definitely a point to this long story, although in general, he wouldn’t put it past Lance to digress on something unnecessary like that. 

Then again, what did Keith  _ actually _ know about Lance? Not much apparently.

“Hah, nothing big.” He folded the knife and handed it back over. Keith took it, a bit reluctantly, and put it back in his pocket. Feeling it against his body was nice, which was just one of many downsides of his insane paranoia, so he appreciated the sentiment. An explanation was still due, though, so he kept staring.

“Come on, man.” Lance bumped their shoulders together with a sympathetic grin. “I basically laid it out. It’s the reason you’re sitting here right now.”

“Oh? Oh.”

_ I never miss. _

“Yep, yeah. If I’d killed you, well, no excuses for me, that’s for sure. So I had to find another way, because I _really_ didn’t wanna. Kinda…figured you’d pick up on it, but damn, your brain is hard as a brick.”

“Pick up on it?”

“Uh, yeah? You think I practically kidnapped you on multiple occasions because I didn’t know you’d try to slice my throat open?”

_ Harsh _ .

Keith looked away, suddenly very uncomfortable, a sense of shame creeping up inside him. He’d pretended, played the friend he’d never been, all the while Lance had pretended, played the innocent victim, only so neither of them would have to kill each other in the end. And, no, Keith hadn’t picked up on it, because he’d never considered all of it to be a farce.

“I guess your acting was too good, then. I totally bought the _poor little celebrity_ act.”

“Well, that’s a real professional here for you.”

Lance stuck out his tongue, but chuckled and dropped his head on Keith’s shoulder, apparently  _ very _ happy with himself right now. If one thing  _ was _ indeed real, then it was his unexpected mood swings. Where he’d been frantic, then serious, then sassy, he was now looking content and comparatively blissful.

“Stop giving me the judging look, Keith.”

“I’m not—”

Was he? Sure, he was trying to understand their situation—A pointless try, by the way, because nothing seemed to add up. Otherwise, though, he was merely overwhelmed with the contradicting information, the clash of cold rationality and warm emotions that kept bubbling inside him like magma in a volcano. It felt like there were questions he should ask, but none came to mind, at least not on the spot. All he wanted was to close his eyes and doze off, lean into the comfortable touch and tune out the rest of the world.

Suddenly, he wondered what quitting would feel like. It was something he’d never given any thought before—Even the concept had never occurred to him. Now, though, now that he’d already broken a worrying amount of personal rules in record time, it was hard not to think further, about a life where he wouldn’t have to think about murder and death.

It was foreign to be bothered by it, yet at the same time impossible not to.

A large hand gently rubbed his back, a hum vibrated against the skin on his neck. If he didn’t know better—much better, at that—he’d think of the feeling as _domestic_ , although only daring to _consider_ that word for their relationship was both ridiculous and naive.

They weren’t, and they would never be.

“What are you worried about?”

He snorted, because the answer was almost as obvious as it was paradox, graspable yet out of reach.  _ Everything _ was the truth, just as much as  _ nothing _ was, so instead of using words, he simply shook his head.

Maybe he didn’t have an answer, or maybe he simply didn’t want to give it.

“Jeez, aren’t you talkative.” Lance nudged his side and sat up properly to press their cheeks together, a pout spread on his face. He sounded a bit like an annoyed kid. “You know you can talk to me, right? Sorry about all that _you’re at my mercy_ talk earlier towards your friends, I got a bit overwhelmed with adrenaline and—”

“Lance, for fuck’s sake,” Keith snapped and leaned away, a genuinely angry frown on this face. “Why am _I_ the one who’s offended that you already pretend none of this ever happened? Where’s your sense of self-respect?”

“Eh.” Lance looked bored at best. “We’re in the same boat, remember? Think I’ve never thought about just, y’know, doing it? But I didn’t, and you didn’t, and I don’t care about the rest.”

That was…oddly pragmatic, all things considered, but reassuring at the same time. Keith didn’t think it was that simple, because, successful or not, he  _ had _ kind of tried to get the deal done, but he decided that perhaps right now wasn’t the best moment to think this through. As if he’d said it out loud, Lance snorted, stretched and dropped back onto the mattress.

““And, well...I guess I’m just tired of pretending. Of telling myself I’d be able to go through with this.”

Less pragmatic, his voice now filled with a tint of melancholy. Keith searched for his hand, laced their fingers together experimentally. It was true, it was the same thing he’d been forcing himself to do—pretend. Maybe it was best to make of life whatever they still could, as long as they could.

“Teeny-tiny,” Lance sang, his eyes closed and a content smile on his face. “Tiny hands in pretty gloves. Soft smile on a grumpy face—You’re an enigma, you know that?”

“What?”

He sat back up, inched closer, brushed their sides together and placed a line of small, innocent kisses along Keith’s jawline, the pressure so little that he barely felt it. A hand brought him back down onto the mattress, fingers sprawled over his chest, dark eyes taking in his face. The smile on Lance’s lips, the way he bit the lower one lightly, it was—haunting, but in such a good way that Keith, silently, to himself, hoped he’d never have to look away. He leaned into the hand caressing his cheek, only for it to be replaced, yet again, by warm lips breathing kisses onto his skin. It was foolish, offering himself up like this, both body and mind willingly giving in to the quiet evidently mutuality of feelings, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Didn’t even  _ want _ to care anymore.

“You’re so pretty like this…”

He whined pathetically, the only sound he managed to make as a reply to that. Selfish contentedness bubbled up inside him, he indulged in the feeling and the words and the honesty of it all. Things could’ve been so much easier if he hadn’t been so blind, and it hurt while it didn’t.

“Why…?” he asked weakly, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. “How can you just accept this?”

“Used to it.”

He blinked, looked over. Lance was smiling, genuine but pitiful. There was so much to him that Keith knew nothing about, but finally, he was able to admit to himself that he wanted to.

To understand what had brought them here, what  _ freedom _ was supposed to mean. To learn about the past and the present and the future, one day at a time.

“Besides.” The smile made way for another cocky grin. “If this _is_ our last day among the living, you better believe I ain’t got no time to waste.”

“I promise it won’t be.”

Keith didn’t know where he was taking that resolve from, but he would find a way. He’d spent years listening to orders, mindlessly executing them because he’d trusted his friends, their choices and abilities. Now, things were different. Now, he wanted to actively make a change, even if that would have sounded stupid to him just hours ago. 

“Heeey,” Lance nudged an elbow into his side. “You almost sounded genuine there.”

“Almost—? Ah.” Keith rolled his eyes passionately and crossed his arms. “Good to see you’re your annoying self again.”

But Lance wasn’t offended, only grinned and shrugged before getting up, so they could leave early. It was unanimous, they’d be early, but that was alright.  They exited in silence, left the building in silence, walked in silence. To himself, Keith wondered what they looked like to other people. A couple of guys hitting the street in the middle of the night? Honestly, the thought was a bit amusing. He couldn’t imagine that anyone would have looked at them and thought:  _ These two are the most dangerous people I’ll ever meet in my life. _

Maybe it was a bit ugly of him to enjoy that thought, but he did so anyway.


	5. fear

They wordlessly agreed to travel without speaking, mostly because there wasn’t really anything to be said. Even Lance, who’d normally at least sport a bad joke or any other sort of entertainment, was quiet, eyes trained on the environments they passed by. After what had happened earlier, Keith didn’t doubt that he was seeing things no normal human eye would ever catch onto.

To his actual surprise, they arrived at their destination without any incidents, thus way too early, but he doubted they’d be the first to be there in either case. He honestly didn’t like these outposts much, basements in old, abandoned buildings, because they didn’t feel too safe, but then again, what did he know? The actual room they were headed to was hidden behind a locked door with a password, one that took Keith a decent four tries, because he was too proud to simply give a call and ask anyone to let them in. All things considered, it would’ve been better if he had, because—

“Seriously? _Babyhippo_?”

He cast a glance over to Green, who shot him a shit-eating grin before turning her head towards Black and trying to contain her laughter, but failing terribly.

“I can’t believe he tried _hippo, hippobaby_ and _knife_ first.”

“You—Shut your—”

He gave up before trying. Considering the real answer, all of his tries had be very legitimate and, with the exception of one, stupidly close to the truth, so why was he being made fun of here?

“Wait, you…like hippos or something?” Lance asked with the hint of a grin on his lips. Keith should’ve known that those two meeting was the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

“ _Like?_ Oh boy, you’re in for some stories.”

He let it happen, although exclusively because he knew that it helped Green deal with the stress of the situation, and instead shoved Lance in the direction of his partners. They both had their eyes fixed back on Green’s computer, apparently watching something, but Keith didn’t get to ask what was going on before Black walked over to them and forced him into a painfully tight hug.

_ Ugh. _

“I’m fine, mom.”

“Will you cut it out? I was worried about you. So was Pidge, although she denies it now.”

“My plan was foolproof, okay!”

Keith rolled his eyes and shrugged himself out of the hug. Just because he’d agreed to come here didn’t mean he’d let either of them off the hook yet—He was still royally pissed about them putting his life on the line like that,  _ especially _ after he’d learned more about his target’s actual profession.

“Uh, not to intrude or anything,” Lance tried cautiously, hands fondling with the strap of his rifle case, a polite smile on his lips, eyebrows furrowed. “But I get _nothing_ , and I don’t like it.”

“Ah, of course.” Black let go of Keith and walked over to him to introduce himself. “I’m Shiro, and this is Pidge—Don’t look at me like that, Keith. I think if we ask this young man to trust us, the least we can do is the same _.”_

Keith rolled his eyes  _ again _ and shrugged  _ again _ , took the seat next to Pidge and watched her type away quickly, then adjust her glasses, fix her tied up hair, rinse and repeat. He figured that his theory about her brother had been true, and put a hand on her shoulder to let her know he understood.

Somehow, at least.

“Weren’t you bringing someone else?”

He looked up to Shiro, who was guiding a very confused Lance over to the briefing table, motioning for him to sit down. For an empty basement, the place was fancy enough, Keith found, sporting electricity and acceptable furniture, but other than that, it was pretty bland.

Better that way, he found.

“Hm? Oh, yes and no. I informed him, but not sure if he can make it right away. Bit suspicious and all.”

“If anyone had the mercy of explaining this mess, I’d be _so_ happy,” Keith interrupted the, to him, pointless chatter, and stared up at Shiro, who in return gave him a warm, way too pleasant smile, exclusively to make Keith feel bad about his snappy attitude. He didn’t admit that it worked, kept his frown in place and waited.

“My idiot-brother got himself into a pile of shit,” came the explanation from _Pidge_ instead of Shiro, a disappointed and angry tone to her voice. Her tapping got a bit louder, too. “Like Shiro explained, it was his life for yours. We got blackmailed.”

“By?”

“Ugh.”

They all looked over to Lance, who was running a hand over the case he’d put on the table in front of himself, staring at what seemed to be an empty spot on the wall. Considering it was him, maybe he saw something there, but Keith couldn’t have made out anything, and he didn’t bother ask, instead nudged Lance’s side to get him to talk.

“Same person I work for, I’m pretty sure. I mean, it makes sense, right? Wants to get rid of Keith, knows I’m capable of doing so.” An apologetic grimace, he cleared his throat. “Which, by the way, uh, would be pretty bad. Guy’s not exactly one to have a tea party with.”

“Oh, you don’t say.”

“In any case.” Shiro stopped them before they could have gotten distracted by arguing. “We need your exact instructions to know how to proceed.”

“That’s simple. Kill the target, deliver the body. Well…simple in theory.”

Keith frowned. Wasn’t there always the possibility that someone had seen them make their way over here together? Not exactly unsuspicious.

“You’re not being watched?” he asked unsubtly, and gestured around the room to show that this could actually be quite problematic. Lance sported his poised, self-assured smile, though, raised an eyebrow and dramatically shook his head.

“I told you already. I’m a professional, Mullet.”

Pidge snorted, most likely unnecessarily amused by the nickname. Keith frowned, ran a hand through his perfectly fine hair subconsciously, but nodded nonetheless. What other choice had he than to believe that? From all he knew, he could’ve died a few hours ago, so if this whole mission relied on the idea that he  _ had _ indeed died back there, then he decided to not even try and argue any further.

Only gave him another headache, honestly.

“Alright then. What do we do next? Can’t exactly walk in there and say _Here I am, totally dead_. I hope someone here came up with a clever idea by now.”

“Of course we did.”

Pidge pushed her glasses up and raised her chin arrogantly, which was pointless, because she still couldn’t look down on Keith, but he let her have it.

_ Not worth it, not worth it, notworthitKeith, spareyourselfthetrouble. _

“We have the location and a time, and a general layout of the building. We’ll sneak both you and Shiro in, but we need a third eye. Him.”

She pointed at Lance, who frowned at her, then pulled up the respective building on a map on her computer. His eyes lit up and he moved closer to Keith so he could get a better look.

“Oh, I’ve been there before!”

His face dropped.

“That’s a horrible plan.”

“What—? I spent hours—”

“No, listen.”

He pointed on…some spot of the map, and suddenly Keith felt  _ very _ small, because now Shiro was leaning over them to get a look as well.

“Here’s the office you’re ordered in, I’m sure. Can you get a clearer picture of that window?”

Pidge clicked and tapped a bit more fiercely than in any way necessary, seemingly quite pissed about the fact that her plan had just been shut down like that. She obviously wasn’t used to that, especially with a partner like Keith, who preferred to keep his mouth shut whenever he could.

“Yeah, perfect.” For his liking, Lance got a little _too_ excited about this. No one else seemed to mind, though. “There’s this big boss chair in the middle here—Honestly, like in every stupid action movie ever, I’m not kidding. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s bullet-proof. Buuut~”

He spread his middle and index finger, laid them onto the screen to the left and right of where he’d claimed the chair to be, and either missed or ignored the furious look Pidge gave him for touching her stuff like that.

“There’s two guards, one to each side.” He tilted his head, then laid a hand on top of his rifle case with a smug smile gracing his lips. “And I’m pretty sure they are _not_ bullet-proof.”

“I—That—”

Pidge pouted, which Keith understood. Having her plans outsmarted like that…ouch. She took her role and knowledge, her whole genius seriously, but she didn’t complain about it.

“Okay, fine. Can we really leave that to you, though?”

“You can.”

It was Keith who answered, suddenly reminded of what had happened earlier, Lance piercing a fly on the wall with nothing but a thrown knife. He didn’t look or act it most of the time, but after that encounter, there was no doubt he was, by far, the most lethal out of everyone in the room.

Honestly, the thought sent a very confusing shiver down Keith’s spine. A mixture of uncertainty and excitement, somehow.

“Aww, did you hear that? Grumpy trusts my abilities.”

He made a face when he was pulled into a mini-hug. He trusted  _ everyone’s _ abilities right here, but that didn’t mean that they had to play best buddies while working together.

Maybe…Keith was holding a small grudge here. Rightfully so, though, if you asked him. He wasn’t exactly known for trusting people easily, so having that hard-earned trust played with wasn’t a very pleasant experience. He’d get over it, and he wouldn’t let it get in the way of the mission, but that didn’t make it any less…frustrating, perhaps.

“Okay then,” he concluded. “We have Shiro and myself sneaking in, Lance hidden somewhere waiting to strike, and Pidge working on hacking into the security system. Feels like an awfully tight calculation. Won’t they expect you to show up with a body at some point?”

“Yeah, my partner will take care of it. He’s a scaredy-cat—Wouldn’t believe we work together if you met him casually—But he’ll be able to fake it for long enough that we can get in. It’s still…risky for your friend, of course. Then again, they let him live for weeks, right? Damn, you’re quite the trophy, Mullet.”

“It’s not a—”

Keith gave up before trying. Again. Lance had a point about the rest of it, though. This whole mission had been going on for  _ weeks _ now, so whoever was behind it must have held a personal vendetta against him, for reasons that he honestly couldn’t even imagine. There were countless people out there that he might have hurt at some point, at least indirectly, by hurting someone they cared about, but how would anyone have found out that it was  _ him _ ?

“It’s the best bet we have. I don’t like having anyone’s life on the line, but if we could put an end to this once and for all…”

It went without saying, but they would  _ all _ benefit from that. Even though they were basically two different groups of people, they seemed to share this mutual enemy—Ridding themselves of them would safe everyone in the room, and that dumbass Matt who’d gotten himself in this trouble in the first place.

“Alright, I’ll structure a plan,” Pidge said nonchalantly while typing away on her laptop again. “Shiro, did you bring the new set of communicators? Guess we could use them tonight.”

“On it.”

Keith frowned but didn’t say anything, suddenly remembering the sound of his previous communicator being crushed between his and Lance’s faces a few hours ago. Things had changed rapidly, and they would keep changing, and that was highly uncomfortable. He buried both hands in his pockets and looked to the side when he felt a weight drop onto his shoulder.

“You alright?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course, since he knew the answer to be  _ no _ . None of them were alright at the moment, everyone overwhelmed with the sudden switch in their lives from hunters to the hunted. Where every other day in their life had probably been about success, about ending something, today was about one thing only: Survival. As long as all of them still lived tomorrow, that would already mean they’d succeeded.

“Mhm.” Lance sighed. “No, not really. I’m sure I’ll be fine and all, you know? Like I told you. Safety of hiding far away from the scenery. I don’t have this feeling of…I don’t know, excitement? But I’m scared.”

“Of?”

He backed away a little, if only so he could frown at Keith skeptically, gesturing in a way that looked like he felt mocked.

“Uh, isn’t it obvious?” And then, after Keith didn’t answer for a while, Lance added: “ _You_ of course, dumbass. I don’t want to see you go in there.”

What…the hell?

Keith knew what worry felt like. As much as he preferred being distanced from people, it didn’t mean that he had no feelings whatsoever. Consecutively, he wasn’t thrown off-guard by the general idea of worrying about someone else’s life, at least he didn’t think so, but having it said straight to his face, just like that, by the man he’d almost murdered only recently.

He didn’t know how to respond.

“Is he always this talkative?”

“Oh, you’re being lucky.” Pidge grinned, adjusted her glasses and shrugged shortly. “There’s days where he doesn’t say a word to me.”

Keith wanted to complain, to insist that she was lying and entirely exaggerating, but Shiro already agreed with her.

“It’s true. When it gets real bad, I almost forget how his voice sounds…”

“Okay, _very_ funny. Can we move on?”

They chuckled, but got back down to business, coordinated a plan and, in Keith’s and Shiro’s case, got a rundown of the building’s interior and a detailed explanation on where they had to go and how they’d get there. Having merely hours to memorize all the floors and the guards that were positioned in a frightening amount of places on their way to their destination was definitely something new—Normally, they had at least a day to prepare for an infiltration of this dimension. It couldn’t be helped, though. Their friends life was on the line, and they were his only hope.

“There’s no hidden entrances and we, quite obviously, lack the time to try and dig new ones, so you’ll have to pass through a window to the main lobby. I can mess with the electricity as soon as the communication is down, but not for too long, or it’ll be suspicious. You’ll just have to make sure to walk past the guards without much of a fuss. Avoid any attacks. It’s best if they don’t expect you coming in at all.”

Everyone fell silent, occupied with playing their roles through in their own heads. It was reckless, to say it politely, and Keith had this bad gut feeling that something—If not everything—Was going to go entirely wrong. He could only hope that just this once, his intuition would be wrong, as far from the truth as could be.

He didn’t really believe it, though.

  


  


They met Lance’s friend and partner, a tall, broad man named  _ Hunk _ , halfway towards their destination, casually carrying a bag that suspiciously looked like it  _ actually _ held a body. Keith instantly understood what Lance had meant about  _ not believing they worked together _ , because for just the moment of their reunion, they looked like two simple young men who hadn’t seen each other in a long while—Genuine smiles on their lips, mild worry in their eyes.

There wasn’t much time to get to know each other, but they all exchanged greetings and a few words while heading as close to their destination by car as they could afford without raising suspicion. Keith decided to keep quiet most of the time—He didn’t even know what he was supposed to say—But made sure to keep his shoulder pressed against Lance’s in the tight spot they shared. For now, it was like an anchor keeping him on the shores, saving him from the inevitable storm that would cause them to drift apart. If they were lucky, it wouldn’t be forever. If they weren’t…

He shook his head and sighed. This wasn’t the time to second-guess; they’d made a decision, had made up their minds, and they would go through with this plan no matter the outcome. Even if it felt like the worst idea ever.

“I get why you like him,” he heard somewhere from the side but didn’t bother turning around to it, kept staring at buildings passing by and leaves dancing in the wind. “Bet he lets you talk for hours without saying a word.”

Yeah, so, that was about _him_ , huh? He decided to peek over to Hunk, who was currently busy getting punched hard on the shoulder by a seemingly flustered Lance. It was straight out of a movie. How were they so carefree about all of this? How were they in the right state of mind to tease each other, make jokes and pretend they were headed to a family reunion rather than an infiltration?

“Shouldn’t you take this a bit more seriously?” Keith asked without judgment, mere curiosity swinging along in his voice. They both looked over to him, grins and frowns fading, making way for surprise. He was short of elaborating when Lance threw his arm around him and pulled him close a bit too dramatically for his liking.

“Aw, come on, Keith! Who knows what’ll happen tonight? Gotta live every day as if it’s your last, or you’ll regret it. If we cheer or mourn isn’t gonna change what happens later, y’know? You wanna take your last breath thinking back on how you gave your pals the silent treatment last time you saw them? Because I don’t.”

He…unfortunately had a point with that. Truth was, Keith normally didn’t consider any mission to possibly be his last—A heavily overconfident thought, he realized—Thus never feeling the need to make the last minutes or hours before it count. 

“I don’t normally believe that I might die in a mission,” he admitted, and then, when no one said anything for what felt too long: “Most of my plans are well-structured, and flawlessly executed.”

For…some reason, that still didn’t manage to make anyone talk. He cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow, tried to get a look at either Shiro or Pidge through the rear mirror, but neither of them seemed to even notice him.

“Holy shit.”

He looked back to Lance, who was ogling him now as if he’d seen a ghost—And a scary one, at that.

“It all makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“You. This mission. Why you’re such a big trophy to take down. You’re fucking rogue, huh? Thought I’d had you at gunpoint, but you just—god damn. Suddenly I’m not so sure anymore.”

That, finally, caused Pidge to snort at the front—Less amused and more with a hint of  _ evil _ to it. She was enjoying this greatly, and Keith still didn’t really understand what was going on. What had he said to shift the mood like this?

“That’s Keith for you. He doesn’t absolutely seem like it, but there _is_ a reason taking him out was such an important task. So, yeah, consider yourself lucky I held him back.”

“Jeez. Sca~ry.”

For his own sanity, Keith decided to tune out the rest of that conversation.

  


They had to ditch the car a decent walk-distance away. Fortunately, the street lamps were out, so it was easy to blend into the darkness without raising any suspicion. The building they were headed to was one in many in a row of skyscrapers. The area surrounding the district was mostly industry, so there was not much of a chance of running into any pedestrians.

So far, so good. However, this was of course an advantage for not only them, but also their enemy.

“Everyone ready?” Pidge asked from where she’d made herself comfortable in the back of the car. They all exchanged looks and nodded, before everyone headed in their respective direction.

The idea was almost  _ simple _ . While Hunk was supposed to distract the guards, Pidge would take care of the lighting in the entrance hall, allowing for Shiro and Keith to sneak past the guards and catch one of the elevators to their designated floor. Until they got there, Lance would have enough time to break into the building across the street, head up to the same floor and set his equipment up to aid them in the rescue.

It really  _ did _ sound simple. And because it did, Keith was absolutely sure that there had to be some sort of twist, something they hadn’t considered or planned through. He didn’t have the time to let that get to himself, of course, and he didn’t bring it up, even when Shiro gave him this knowing look, but it was persistent enough to keep bothering him.

“ _Surveillance cameras are frozen. Can’t keep it like that for too long, so give me the cue rather sooner than later._ ”

They exchanged two simple nods before Shiro confirmed to Pidge.

“Ready to go.”

“ _Alright. Ready in three, two…go!”_

On perfect cue, the lights inside went out, causing just enough of a commotion for them to break a window and climb in.

“ _You have forty-five seconds. Make them count.”_

It was a fleeting moment, and at the same time half an eternity. They couldn’t communicate any longer, even though there were some frantic voices that would most likely drown theirs out if they really had to, but there was no need to, either. Keith found the staircase effortlessly even in the pitch-black dark, and managed to climb it without bumping into anything or anyone. The elevator, he knew this, was just down the hallway to his side. He considered waiting, but then heard two quiet words through his communicator.

“ _Go on.”_

The words left no room for questions, so he didn’t ask any, instead he hurried towards his destination as quietly as he could before the lights came back on. When the forty-five seconds came to an end, he found himself face to face with the elevator—and right in front of it, a guard, who took half a second too long to understand the situation. Before he’d even taken a full breath, Keith had grabbed him by the collar and cut his throat with one calculated swing of his knife.

He didn’t bother looking back before heading into the elevator and pressing the button for the sixth floor, and instead prepared himself to face more guards as soon as the doors opened.

Obviously, he was right.

There were two, of which he took one out before they even noticed who’d snuck up on them. The second managed to pull out a gun and shoot, but Keith barely dodged out of the way so it only grazed his right shoulder. Immediately, a pounding pain rushed through his body. That wasn’t what bothered him, though. He closed the distance, knocked the guy against the wall, and rammed the blade into his neck—Quick and effective.

The noise, though…

“Status?” he inquired quickly, while already making his way in the direction Pidge had earlier instructed them to take.

“ _Black’s in position in the lobby, ready to support if needed. Judging by his comfortable silence, I’d say Blue has reached his destination as well.”_

“ _Blue? They’re not getting better.”_ Lance’s tone was deep, mischievous. _“Affirmative, though. That gunshot startled them, but no one’s moved. Give me the cue, and I’ll take them out.”_

“Alright. I’m almost there.”

Keith felt it tingle in his fingertips, an odd, foreign sensation he couldn’t recall from any of his previous missions. Was he _shaking_? He didn’t know when he’d last doubted the success of a mission like this— With his previous failure as an exception, because that had been his fault, not that of a wonky plan. Now, though, it was all there—anticipation, worry, uncertainty. There were no guards outside of the room he was headed to, which in itself was even more concerning. Somehow, all of this was way too easy.

“Ready when you are,” he dared say, fingers wrapped tightly around the door handle, his knife in position to strike, just in case.

“ _Gotcha. How about we use the element of surprise for us?”_

Lance sounded amused. Keith didn’t say anything, but let him anyway.

“ _On my cue, huh? Alright…Move!”_

He did—pushed the door open and moved in, ready to attack if needed. There was the microscopic fraction of a second where nothing happened; his eyes flew from one guard to the next— Then, they were falling. One, then the other in what seemed to be the exact same second. It shouldn’t have thrown him off-guard—he’d known this would happen—yet here he was, amazed and, to an extend, scared shitless.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one, because the man who’d just been sitting calmly in the chair right in front of the window was staring at him with wide eyes.

_ It’s too easy, Keith. There’s something wrong here. _

“Who would’ve thought…”

The man’s voice was deep and unpleasant in Keith’s ears. There was fear in it, undoubtedly, but less surprise than he’d thought he’d meet.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Let’s end this little game, shall we?”

As if in slow-motion, he reached down and pulled something up. The time-frame was too short for Keith to  _ see _ it, but he knew anyway. He needed to act, and quickly. Before he could even move, though—

“ _Get down.”_

He didn’t know what made him obey; maybe Lance’s serious tone, or the fact that rushing at someone who was about to point a gun at him sounded like a terrible idea from the get go, but Keith did it anyway— He ducked, heard the screeching sound of metal against metal, and saw the gun fall to the floor right before his feet.

“Impressive, sharpshooter,” he commented shortly, before taking action himself. The short moment of surprise, of his enemy realizing that he’d been outplayed, that was all Keith needed to close the distance, launch himself over the table and strike.

A quick motion. Metal against skin. Cold against warm. Boiling hot blood against icy cold air. He knocked them both over. A sharp, stinging pain exploded in his side, taking his breath away. 

_ Obviously _ .

It would’ve been too easy without getting hit himself.

“ _Red?”_

Pidge’s voice was low, a bit too quiet for his liking. She always knew _immediately_ when something was off about him, even if he only took a slightly too sharp breath. He propped himself up and put distance between himself and the lifeless body. A second, another sharp breath. It hurt.

“I’m fine.”

“ _You don’t sound fine. Or look, for that matter.”_

He looked at the window, but couldn’t make out on which floor behind which window Lance was supposed to be hiding. It didn’t really matter, either, but Keith felt a bit awkward for speaking in the wrong direction, all the while being watched by the speaker.

“Barely scraped me.”

“ _You’re shaking.”_

“It’s called adrenaline— How the fuck do you even see that?”

Instead of waiting for an answer, Keith turned towards their, hopefully, unconscious friend on the floor, and checked his pulse—he seemed to be fine, merely knocked out, but he wasn’t heavily injured.

“He’s alright.”

“ _Lobby’s clear. I’m on my way.”_

Shiro.

“I can—”

“ _I said I’m on my way. Don’t move.”_

Keith rolled his eyes, but gave up and dropped down onto the floor, trying to get a good look at his side. The wound really wasn’t bad, it was mostly the shock that still sat in his bones, his body’s instinct to flee from danger. He considered himself good at suppressing it, most of the time, but it was harder when an attack on him actually landed and caught him off-guard.

Oddly enough, it didn’t feel like things were over. Sure, they were a reasonably-sized team of highly talented assassins, with the assistance of a genius hacker, but even so…

_ It’s too easy, it’s too easy it’s tooeasytooeasy. _

Footsteps came closer, clearly audibly through the wide-open door.

“ _I’m coming in.”_

Said, done; mere seconds later, Shiro was kneeling next to Keith, inspecting him, then Matt, and then him again.

“You’re pale.”

“Something’s not right.”

The air was heavy between them, glooming. No one agreed, but no one disagreed either, which was confirmation enough.

A gunshot exploded in Keith’s ears, causing him—and Shiro right next to him—to flinch.

“ _Should’ve figured.”_

“ _Blue! Status report.”_

“ _Status: Shit. Reason: A dead asshole locked me in.”_

They gave each other a look while listening to the exchange between Lance and Pidge, then both nodded quickly before Shiro heaved Matt up and Keith wordlessly took the lead out of the room and towards the elevator. He hoped they wouldn’t get attacked again, but who knew?

“ _I can get you out,_ ” Pidge continued the conversation calmly. _“But not without direct contact to the door’s control panel. Someone needs to go in and secure me a connection to—”_

“I’ll do it.”

Keith heard his own voice say those words before even thinking them. If it was nothing more than quickly getting in and back out, he was, by far, the most logical choice— But he hadn’t even thought about that until now. No one objected, which he took as good sign while waiting for the elevator to bring them back down to the lobby. The silence was…uncomfortable, to say the least. All of them still expected for it not to be over, no one allowed themselves to let down their guard. Words were unnecessary, dangerous even, and a waste of breath and energy.

Dead silence reigned in the main hall. Keith didn’t bother looking at the pools of blood, the lifeless bodies, thought about anything but the nasty smell of death that surrounded them. Surprisingly, they made it out without another attack, all three of them mostly unharmed, and met up with Hunk on the way to the car.

“Keith, you’re bleeding,” Pidge provided not quite helpfully, causing him to shrug and reach for the small plastic chip she was holding in her hand. She hesitated.

  


  


  


  


“ _It’s fine, I’ll get out somehow. If you’re hurt—”_

“Shut up. Give me that.”

He snatched the chip out of Pidge’s fingers before she could argue, nodded towards the rest of the team and started running. The sooner they all got out of this place, the better.

“Building, floor, room. Green, make this easy for me.”

“ _No, are you— Can someone stop this moron?”_

It was a rhetorical question, of course, so no one answered. Keith _thought_ he knew which of the identical skyscrapers he needed to head into, but waited for confirmation.

“ _Second one down that street. Sixth floor. Room number 612.”_

“Got it.”

The elevator took painfully long, giving Keith too much time to think. He understood why someone would try to attack Lance while he was occupied— But lock him in? Something about that didn’t quite add up. 

_Rookie_ , Keith figured. Actual murder was always harder in action than thought; people hesitated, wasted their time on securing the position and adjusting to the situation, and then died because they couldn’t actually go through with it. Part of him wanted to feel sorry, but at the same time he didn’t see much of a reason to.

The elevator announced his arrival on the sixth floor with an annoyingly loud  _ Pling _ , causing him to pull a face and and squint up at the speaker. He hurried to find the right door and, once he had, put the device on the display in front of himself, watched it decode the password, but didn’t understand a bit of what was going on. It was awfully quiet, the silence ringing in his ears like an alarm bell, and a foreign kind of uncertainty crept up inside him. Instinct. A bad feeling.

It wouldn’t have been the first time his instincts were correct.

“This is all a bit convenient…” he muttered through the comms, hoping that any of his allies would ease his worries. Maybe they had a better explanation for this than him, somehow. “Why would someone lock you in here and then—”

“ _Oh God.”_

He waited, not sure what that was supposed to mean, but instead of elaborating, Lance audibly took a deep breath and muttered to himself. Shiro seemed to notice the sudden mood-shift as well.

“ _What’s going on in there?”_

“I don’t know, he suddenly—”

“ _You need to get out of here. Like, right now. Leave the stupid door and book it.”_

Lance’s voice was uncharacteristically low, worried, and he didn’t seem up for arguing about any of this. Unfortunately, Keith was at least as stubborn as him, and it’d probably take half an army of wild hyenas to have him even _consider_ leaving this place alone. He wouldn’t abandon a teammate, no matter the cost. Besides, he didn’t even understand _why_ he was supposed to leave, because he was still waiting for an explanation.

“Forget it. Why would I leave you behind?”

“ _This place is rigged! How did I fucking miss this? Don’t you think it’s stupidly convenient to lock me in here instead of just killing me while I was busy? They_ _fully_ _expected someone to come break me out, only to—”_

The display blinked green, then suddenly red, and in the same second, the communicator died on Keith. To make matters even worse, he didn’t have the time to question that, because there was the deafeningly loud, dull sound of something crashing or exploding a few floors below him.

_ Oh _ .

At least the door finally swung open, but the second he took a step into the room, the whole place was already shaking like a house of cards in the breeze. _This_ had been the back-up plan—to dispose of the two of them through the means of a sneak attack like this. Not pleasant, and honestly not too stupid either.

They’d been naive. Had rushed this. Had left too much calculation to coincidence. And now here they were, Lance staring at him with wide eyes, the horror of what was to come visible on his face. It was barely a few seconds, but it felt like years, how they saw realization in each other’s eyes, the knowledge of what was going to happen, and very soon.

“This shithole’s gonna collapse under our asses. I told you to book it, idiot!”

“And I told you no! We can still—”

The floor moved, sent Keith sliding forward, caused him to grab the door handle to balance himself. Then he realized it was, in fact, not just the floor that was moving. Instead, the whole building was dipping to the side, like the fucking Pisa-tower or some shit, and they were—Fuck, they were gonna fall, they were going to crash into one of the buildings on the other side, and they would…

They were going to  _ die. _

The moving came to an abrupt halt, leaving Keith hanging onto the stupid door like a lifeline, and Lance clinging onto one of the tables that luckily seemed to be bolted to the floor, but they both knew this wouldn’t help them for long.

“Okay, great, _fuck this_ , any smart plans, Mullet?”

“Let’s see, how about…” Keith pretended to be thinking for less than two seconds, then shouted his reply louder than necessary: “Shut up and don’t fucking die, idiot!”

“Astounding, never would’ve— Woah!”

Their worsening angle caused the shelf next to the door to fall over and crash onto the side of the table Lance was holding onto. Neither of them missed the fact that it knocked one of the screws out before sliding down further in the direction of the windows. And it sure wasn’t the ridiculously small amount of added weight on that side of the room, but  _ something _ caused the building to dip further, and to his absolute displeasure, Keith saw the other building through the windows, coming dangerously close all of a sudden.

“Hang on. Whatever you do, _hang on_.”

“You don’t have to tell me!”

They connected, the earth-shattering sound of massive stone-buildings crashing into each other sending a sickening electricity down Keith’s spine. The whole room quivered around them, shelves full of books giving in to gravity’s pull, a lifeless body falling in the direction of the windows to the left, and the table Lance was holding onto…

Look, Keith was an impulsive person, everyone who’d ever met him in their life would have been able to confirm that. And maybe his decisions were a little reckless at times, poorly calculated and downright  _ stupid _ , but he always had a good  _ reason _ , okay? Normally, these reasons were pragmatic, with no intention other than to achieve his goal, fulfill his mission, do his goddamn  _ job. _

This time, it was the tiniest bit different. Just a little. But he still knew what he was doing.

And if, perhaps, he let go of the fucking door that was still very safely wedged at its angle, only so he could dash forward and grab Lance’s arm before he could pitifully crash into, or even worse, _through_ one of the windows, and thus risked _both of them_ kissing the street instead of just one of them, then that was an entirely justified measurement to try and save the life of someone he hadn’t even been able to admit considering a _friend_ mere hours ago.

So much for that.

The only downside to his genius plan? They _were_ both falling now, each of them fruitlessly trying to hold onto _something_ on their way towards the opposite wall, and it was entirely pointless, but at least it slowed down the impact with which their sides hit the glass. It cracked anyway, causing his stomach to flip and his heart to beat so fast that he feared it might jump right out of his chest any second, but he didn’t dare move. His fingers were digging deep into Lance’s wrist, who himself was clinging onto Keith’s shoulder, and with nothing but locked eyes, they came to an unanimous decision:

They had to move. And they had to do it a) fucking soon and b) fucking fast and c) fucking carefully, or both of them would fully break the glass and be sent flying towards the street from a height that left no possible outcome other than  _ intestine-pudding. _

Keith felt like vomiting his soul out.

He moved his free hand slowly, pointed towards the relative safety of the wall behind Lance, who only nodded with as little movement as he could manage. They weren’t moving anymore, for now, at least, but who knew how long that would last? If anything were to fall on top of them or the window itself…

Keith let go of Lance’s arm but kept his hand in the air, not daring to even lay it down flat next to himself. The position was numbing for every single muscle, but he wasn’t going to risk anything.

“You’ll have to let go as well,” he said quietly, scared that even raising his voice might cause everything around them to shatter. “And _move_.”

“Yeah, right, yeah. I—” Lance’s voice was shaking, his lips trembling, hand slowly letting go of Keith’s shoulder and reaching behind himself, without moving his body much. He was testing, trying to find out how far he’d have to move without being able to look, and then nodded shortly. He started by shifting one leg, dragging a pathetic screeching sound from the glass beneath them.

“It’s…It’s going to break. I can’t do this—You’ll die.”

“Shut up and _do it_. If you don’t, we’re _both dead_.”

He nodded again, closed his eyes and took another deep breath, then tapped one foot on the wall behind himself—And honestly, Keith was a bit impressed by that flexibility which might possibly save their  _ lives _ right here. He heard the glass crack under his ear, somewhere around his shoulder area, but tried his best to ignore it. Even so much as breathing could have been the last straw right there, and he wasn’t going to risk that. He watched Lance take another slow breath before finally moving, rolling over to the wall with as little pressure on the glass as he could manage, but it was still enough.

God bless both of their reflexes, or some shit.

Because before Keith could fall through the glass giving in under him, they were grabbing each other’s wrist so hard that it wouldn’t have been a surprise if it left permanent bruises. It didn’t matter, though.

What did matter was the fact that they managed to heave Keith over to the wall as well, just in time for parts of the lower areas to break away and the walls of both buildings chafing along each other, a bloodcurdling sound that made Keith shiver and numbed his mind. It felt like they’d just escaped certain death three times in a row, back to back to back, and they were still nowhere near a position where they could’ve safely said  _ We’re going to survive this _ .

“Shit, what— What fucking now, what are we— This isn’t the end of it, is it, we’re gonna fall more, and we— We—hell— _Keith.”_

He couldn’t even complain, because Lance embodied exactly what Keith felt but tried to hide for the sake of thinking. Sheer panic, a macabre sense of finality, the very evident realization that they had nowhere to go and could only wait for the next sort of impact, be it the lower floors falling even more into themselves, or the roof dropping down on them, or—

Or,  _ oh God no ohgodno. _

Or the opposite wall collapsing under its own weight, cracked walls obeying the very inevitable laws of physics and gravity, crumbling away and moving in their direction at what felt like slow-motion for the short second Keith allowed himself to think. Maybe it was only half a second, too, because, well,  _ impulsiveness _ .

And the disgustingly painful desire to protect the terrified person next to himself.

Because on top of making reckless decisions, Keith very much liked to push his luck until it eventually ran out—which, at the rate of how things were going down, couldn’t be long from now anyway. He acted on instinct more often than not. He did stupid stuff like launch himself at someone pointing a gun in his direction, betting on the element of surprise. And, well…

Maybe he saw the frighteningly huge chunk of stone-wall coming their way at a very alarming speed, and maybe this  _ instinct _ he relied on was immensely certain that the only logical action in this kind of moment was to try and achieve  _ some _ sort of damage control by throwing himself on top of the body next to his own, ignoring the loud, panicked screams of objection coming from Lance, and waiting for the impact, without even hoping that there was a chance that the wall-chunk would miss them.

It didn’t miss them. Fuck, it didn’t miss them.

The impact of hard, heavy stone on his back took Keith’s breath away, and he was absolutely sure that he blacked out for a moment, overloaded by a mixture of pain, pressure and panic. He figured that he should consider himself lucky for not getting hit on the head, which might have killed him instantly, but the numbing sparks pulsing through his body weren’t much less concerning in the long run. Seconds ticked by, his heart pumping blood through his veins so hard and loudly that he couldn’t see or hear or think, and as soon as it passed, he immediately concluded three things:

First, breathing was an absolutely stupid necessity, a fucking oversight in terms of evolutionary logic if you asked him. It hurt, each inhale like sharp razors scraping off the insides of his lungs, each exhale like his chest imploding in on itself.

Second, the weight on top of him was gone, replaced by a very unpleasant twinge, three thousand bees ramming their stinger into the very same spot on his lower spine.

Third, and undoubtedly the single worst of all three: He couldn’t, for the love of God, feel his stupid, goddamn legs anymore. Tried to move them, but there was simply…

Nothing.

And once he’d halfway processed all of these fucking amazing realizations, there was a fourth, and that was the ineffable sense of horror written on the face right below his own, eyes searching his desperately, a hand gently slapping his cheek to get his attention, to drag him out of his near-death unconsciousness.

“Keith, please, _oh God._ ”

Lance’s voice was hardly above a creaky whisper, but in Keith’s ears, it felt like screams of torment and terror, like Armageddon, the apocalypse, as if the world had just ended right beneath their feet.

In a way, he figured, it had. Not everyone’s world, but maybe his own. 

“Keith? Keith, I _beg_ you. Say something to me. Do something…anything?”

Lance was crying, shaking hands trying to get a hold between them and do something useful, and for a reason Keith couldn’t pin down, the sight and sound were more painful than everything else combined. He wanted to make it stop, the panicked look on Lance’s face, the tears, the quick, heavy breathing, the hands now desperately tugging on his collar and hectically stroking sweaty streaks of hair out of his face.

“Are we…” he tried, every muscle in his body hurting, but not enough to keep him from pressing the words out. “At…a steady angle…now?”

“Who gives a hot fuck?!” Lance’s voice trembled with anger and worry, with knowing anticipation. “We need to— I need to get you out of here, I—”

“Lance.”

He shut up, his hand coming to a rest on Keith’s cheek, nails digging into his skin, maybe to keep him awake, maybe to assure himself that there was still the warmth of life flowing through them both.

“We both…know.” Speaking hurt, it hurthurthurt, but Keith had to, because Lance and he were equally stubborn, and neither of them would ever give in without a fight. “I’m…not leaving…this place. But you can still—”

“Ugh, shut _up_ if you’re not gonna say anything fucking useful, Keith.”

He sighed, exhaustion catching up with him slowly. A nap sure sounded like a nice thing right now. He considered, let his eyes fall shut and pressed his face in the crook of Lance’s neck, an awkward sense of contentedness bubbling up inside him, a pleasant trail of goosebumps covering his numbed arms. Even if he could still think and feel, Keith was certain it wouldn’t take much longer for him to pass out and, eventually, die.

But like this, warm hands holding him tightly, it wasn’t half as worrying as he’d imagined it would be. He’d always figured he’d die either a quick, unexpected death, or a terribly painful, artificially stretched one. Seeing that it was neither of the two put him at ease, although he did feel bad for it—because, again, Lance was a sobbing mess trying to compose himself, to come up with a plan for a scenario that simply wouldn’t play out.

Keith dropped on his side next to him with little to no elegance in his movement, which he blamed his unmoving legs and overall dizziness for, and truly didn’t care much about, other than because the rough landing on his shoulder send a spasm of pain through his entire body. Unpleasant.

“Hey, you— You’re not falling asleep, right?”

Hands cupped his face, fingers trying to force his eyes open. Keith frowned against the particular movement, but couldn’t hide the faintest hint of a smile. Lance was such a dork sometimes, in the oddest situations, in the oddest ways. But he was sad, and that tainted the whole picture.

“Keith, I—Come on, please, you never—” His voice snapped, he chuckled dryly and played with Keith’s hair nervously, perhaps a means of keeping him awake, although it rather achieved the opposite—it was nice, comforting. “You never t-told me the…hippo stories. P-Pidge said that, right? Come on, now—Now’s a good time for that. While I look around, you tell— Tell me something, okay? Don’t fall asleep, just, please—”

To be entirely honest, Keith didn’t want to. His mouth was dry, speaking hurt even more than breathing alone, he was tired and forming coherent thoughts gave him the worst fucking headache. In conclusion, approximately…everything sounded better than telling a story in his current state, but he still tried to clear his throat as best as he could, because…

Lance had asked him to. And he seemed to really want that. Besides, it didn’t look like he was going to let go of Keith before getting an answer to his plea, and not letting go meant…meant. Uh…

Keith needed a moment.

Right.

Not letting go meant that Lance couldn’t try and find a way to save himself out of this crashed shit-show of a failed plan, and that was bad, because Keith had already established that there was no need for  _ both _ of them to die in here.

So he nodded. Almost fell asleep right away but reminded himself that he couldn’t, or Lance wouldn’t let go.

_ He won’t let go, he won’t let go hewon’tletgo. _

“There was…this zoo…where I grew up.”

Wow, had forming sentences always been such a hard task? Keith didn’t remember anymore. What had he just said? He didn’t remember that either. There was something warm on his face, a faint peck. Distinctively felt like a kiss, but he wasn’t sure, his eyes busy watching Lance’s, his mind busy trying to say something clever.

“You’re doing great. Promise.” Another peck. “Just keep going.”

“Uh…hippos. Zoo…Lance, everything’s fuzzy…can we stop?”

“Nope, not at all. You got this, Keith. I’m letting go now, okay?” The cheerfulness in Lance’s voice was fake, his hand combing Keith’s hair moving sloppily. “Promise me you’ll keep talking. Can you—Can you do that for me?”

He didn’t think so, but nodded anyway, rested his forehead against the stone under himself, the cool sensation helping him think. Hippo, zoo.

Ah, that story.

“They always…had baby hippos there. One…was my favorite.”

Most childhood stories weren’t very pleasant for Keith, but his pet-friend had always been an upside. He smiled about the thought.

“Yeah? What…what was its name?”

Lance’s voice seemed far away, although he’d barely gotten up, let alone moved away. From the corner of his eye, Keith could see him look around and take careful steps around his own figure, but he was too busy thinking to really pay attention to it.

Name? Who’d they been talking about again?

“Keith, the hippo. Ugh.” Something cracked. “What was the hippo’s name?”

“Dunno. Never told me.”

“Who didn’t tell you? The— The zoo owners? They have signs, right?” Lance chuckled again, cleared his throat because the sound was more croaky than pleasant. “You—You couldn’t read the sign? How old were you then?”

Had there been a sign? Good question, but if yes, then Keith had never paid attention to it— So he thought, at least. Besides, what did it matter? Maybe hippos didn’t like human names, maybe the poor thing had never accepted any names given to him by some zoo employees.

“Keith? Hey, stay with me, o-okay? You promised…you promised you would.”

Had he? Everything turned, his thoughts and feelings and the world around him, his head hurt so bad that the pain shot right to his stomach, and the only reason he didn’t throw up was because he didn’t feel like he could bring up the strength to do so. Even just moving his lips to form words was straight-up torture.

“Keith, _please_.”

He didn’t like the pleading much. It made him feel guilty for being tired, for wanting nothing more than to sleep for a bit— Not long, just a small, innocent nap. Five minutes? Ten? Thirty tops, no discussion. He didn’t really understand why Lance minded that so much. Couldn’t they have talked about hippos some other time? After all, they were busy almost dying in a collapsed building, so—

Oh…

“I have this…coin bank. Under my bed.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Mhm…is’a hippo, too. ‘Idge made fun’a me for it. ‘S cute though.”

He covered his face with one hand, shielding himself from the barely existent light in the room, did his best to rub his eyes, although he couldn’t bring up much energy to put pressure into the movement. Why was he even talking about something pointless like that? He wasn’t of much physical help in his disabled state, sure, but filling the silence with pointless, kind of embarrassing information wasn’t exactly peek-usefulness either.

“Oh, this works. Okay, okay.”

Lance grunted, and Keith was curious enough about what was going on, but for heaven’s sake, just the  _ thought _ of bothering to turn around to get a glimpse was so tiring that he felt like he could fall into a decade of slumber right away, and there was something about him promising to stay awake tugging on the back of his mind, so he figured he wouldn’t think about something that made him sleepy.

Something cracked again, it sounded like glass, reminding Keith of…hm. A window?

Hadn’t they almost fallen out of a window earlier?

“Lance?”

“Yeah, I—I’m here, Keith. Don’t worry, I’m— I got this. You keep talking, okay? There’s gotta be more stories, I’m sure.”

Were there, though? What kind of stories, even? Most he remembered from the top of his head didn’t have much to do with hippos— He was supposed to talk about hippos, right? Maybe he’d remember some of them if he closed his eyes for a minute, just shortly enough to tune out the real world and let his imagination and memory go wild. Only a few blissful seconds, and then he’d go back to his story.

Just…a moment.

“Keith…”

He flinched, his eyes flew open in shock about how loud, close Lance’s voice was all of a sudden, and Keith’s head immediately started spinning, the poorly-lit room around him still way too much to take in, the only anchor of peace the deep-blue eyes right in front of his face.

“Hey…”

He leaned into the touch on his cheek, smiled and closed his eyes again.

“I’m…really sorry about this.”

A more than decent slap on his face jerked him out of the dizziness. It didn’t help with how tired he was, but it sent a wave of adrenaline through his bones, enough to make him blink his trance away and frown deeply. What had he done for Lance to  _ hit _ him?

Other than, you know. Almost kill him a few hours prior to this pretty bad situation.

“You hit me,” Keith concluded dumbly, more surprised about his powerless voice than about the realization itself. “That’s kinda rude.”

“I know, I know.” The reply was rushed, Lance’s breath hasty and restless. “I—We—I’ll get you over to the other building now, okay? We—We’re almost out of here, Keith. You can— You’ll manage, here, come on.”

Lance heaved him into a sitting position, which was, surprisingly, less terrible in terms of pain than Keith had dreadfully anticipated. He wouldn’t exactly call it pleasant, either, but he could manage. What he still couldn’t do, however, was move his fucking legs, a fact which he noticed hadn’t been brought up yet, but should have been relatively obvious by how oddly they stuck from his body, entirely unmoving.

“Ain’t…gonna go…anywhere.”

“Yes, yes you are—I will—I can—”

“You…hurt yourself. Can hardly…” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, cleared his throat before he’d have to cough. “Get yourself outta here. You’a…fucking moron…sometimes.”

“Appreciate the compliment, Mullet.” Lance tried, but he couldn’t force any hint of tease or amusement into his voice. He didn’t look too great, Keith noticed—there was a nasty cut on his right temple, blood running down a curved line on Lance’s face, his eyes a little unfocused and his head bobbing like he could hardly keep himself upright. He was in no condition to care for anyone else.

“Mean it…how d’you think you’ll…get me…out of here? Can’t move for…the hell of it.”

“Yeah, well, that sucks and thanks for worrying but also can you _please shut the fuck up_ if you’re not helping, I’ll just—I will—I’m gonna, yeah, right.”

A sharp pain pierced Keith’s lungs when Lance pulled him up, almost falling right over because he had to carry their _entire_ weight on his own, but quite surprisingly, he managed. For the time being. The odd feeling of being upright but not having the ground to his feet gave Keith a bad vibe of anxiety, like flying without any safety equipment, which was very uncomfortable. It also filled him with adrenaline, though, send his thoughts flying painfully and forced him to focus on their surroundings in a flash of panic.

“You’re literally…so dumb.”

“Sure.”

“Stupid…idiot.”

“Mhm, I getchu.”

Lance’s voice grew in annoyance, but he audibly tried hard to just go with it.

“Pointless trying to…get us both out.”

“Yep, all there with you, grumpy.”

“Fucking reckless…”

“Okay you fucking listen here.”

He almost dropped Keith, then grabbed his side tighter instead and shot him a glare, eyebrows furrowed and genuine surprise and offendedness on his face.

“Let’s recap this quickly, smartass. Who let go of the momentary safety of a hinged door to save me?”

“Me.”

“Right. And who insisted I get off the breaking window first?”

Had there been a breaking window? Funny. Keith didn’t remember that.

“Uh…me?”

“Ten points, Mullet.” He looked like was thinking hard about how he could get his hands close enough together to clap them, but gave up. “Last question: Who threw themselves on me when a boulder the size of a toddler came flying our way?”

“Wild guess…me?”

“Correct! Now if you could shut your moronic face about recklessness before I _actually_ kill you—”

The ground under their feet shook  _ again _ , cutting their pointless argument off and forcing them to remember the situation they were in. It was a tad amusing and a huge chunk worrisome that they still found the time to argue over ridiculous shit while literally staring in the face of death.

Keith chuckled. A hoarse, quiet sound, sending a pang of pain through his chest, but he didn’t care. Even now, where they were both either too numb to think straight, or visibly terrified, they couldn’t  _ not _ bicker. He liked it, somehow, bantering when there was neither room nor time for it. Gave him a sense of peacefulness where they were as far from it as can be.

“Okay…perhaps I…didn’t think this through,” Lance stated bitterly while they were both more or less hovering over the odd make-shift bridge he’d built over to the other window, by combining a bookshelf and a table in a way that gave Keith such a strong _danger, keep away_ vibe that it put the entirety of the show _Jackass_ to shame.

In short: Wow, what the fuck. They were really going to die. And the more real this truth became, the less Keith could accept it. 

“Let go.”

“What? No. How many times—”

“Let the fuck go.”

He fought, an interesting kind of battle considering his arms still felt numb and his legs were still not listening to his orders and his back was still trying to kill him army of one-style. All of those inconveniences surely added to his worsening mood, the way he rebelled against Lance’s arm trying to hold him closer instead of parting.

“How stupid are you—Keith—The window—Don’t.”

They tripped, almost sending them flying out the broken window, over the table-shelf-hell-bridge down onto the pavement, and Keith silently thanked his instincts and reflexes for reacting quickly and deciding that winning the argument was not worth plummeting them both down to the concrete, instead pulling Lance so they both fell in the opposite direction. Their landing was odd, Keith felt it sparkle in his spine but his legs had just given in like a house of cards— Obviously, since he couldn’t control them. Lance landed half next to, half on top of him, their foreheads bumping together and fingers clinging onto Keith’s shirt on instinct.

Elegance was far from the definition of this mess.

“God, for real?”

Ugh, why was everything shaking again all of a sudden? Keith’s head felt hot, too, somewhere right above his nape, which made no sense unless…

Ah.

He’d hit his head on the floor, it seemed, which wasn’t pleasant, but better than the other option, he figured. It didn’t help staying awake, though, because he was even more tempted now to close his eyes and give in to his exhaustion.

“Keith?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came, his mind and body unable to form a reply, so he gave up and closed it again, instead shook his head weakly. Not good. Why was he on the ground? Everything was spinning yet again, and the sickness from earlier bloomed in him, worse than the first time. Was it the pain or the dizziness that made him feel so awful? Or both?

Thinking was bad. Abort mission.

“Oh no, _no_. Keith—”

Lance’s voice was pleasant, but too loud, rang in his ears like a blaring alarm bell.

“I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ , I should—I shouldn’t have—Please, Keith? You’re still with me, aren’t you?”

He was, although barely so, he felt. Opening his eyes hurt, but less than nodding, so it was the smaller evil of the two. There wasn’t much to see, or maybe there was, but all Keith could make out was blurry, dark skin and a red line and two mesmerizing blue orbs, but although he knew that they were a face, a color composition, he had a hard time puzzling that together.

Things…were really spiraling down. Badly. His body was starting to feel cold, his arms shaking, lips and eyes dry, nose runny, ears ringing, lungs screaming. Everything was terrible.

“I—I told you, I won’t…I’m not giving you up, I can still—We can—”

“Lance.”

Cautiously, Keith reached out, a relieved smile climbing to his lips when he felt the oddly familiar softness of Lance’s short hair under his own numb fingertips. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take his thoughts away from the way his heart pulsed against his sore ribcage, from the fear he knew was trying to haunt his tired mind. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t much at all.

But it was all he needed.

“Gotta…tell you something,” he realized while saying it out loud. Talking still wasn’t exactly one of his strong suits, but he figured that for once, trying couldn’t hurt. Besides, even if whatever he said was going to be really dumb, what would it even matter anymore? As macabre as the thought was— He wasn’t going to live to hear about it anyway.

“What is it?”

Lance’s voice was awfully quiet. He knew his plan wasn’t going to work out, but he still didn’t seem to be able to give up. Why was he so stupidly stubborn, though? There was totally still enough time for him to save his own life, yet instead he was wasting it away by staying next to a doomed idiot.

Keith didn’t manage to roll his eyes; it hurt to try, but he figured that the sentiment was the same.

“You’re…the weirdest guy ever.”

“Okay, I’m charmed, as always, are we done—”

“No, listen.” He propped himself up with one hand and leaned against the wall behind them. Lance followed the movement, brushed their shoulders together and sent a warm shiver down Keith’s spine. He was freezing by now, and the cold from his insides wasn’t one he could have taken care of if he’d tried.

“I always thought I’d…die through a gun to my temple…a knife in my back. A fight, you know?”

“You’re not—You’re not going to die, stop this—”

“But!” He raised his voice enough to be a tad louder than Lance. Childish behavior, again, yet what else was new between them? “Oddly enough, I’m…glad it didn’t. End that way, I mean.”

“Yeah, obviously, because it’s not ending—”

“And I wanted to say…”

For a second, he didn’t remember. Pictures flashed through his mind at the speed of light, he’d forgotten the words before even fully saying them. What was it again…?

“It’s good, really…all this. Feels like it wasn’t for nothing.”

“Shut up, shut up— Shut the fuck up, Keith.”

But he couldn’t,  _ needed _ to say all these things as long as he had the chance to.

It also hurt, though. How Lance pressed their foreheads together, his whining, his tears, everything he’d managed to hold in while he’d still had hope— Now, when the truth was dawning on him, he seemed to let it all go, cupped Keith’s face with shaking hands, pushed wild streaks of hair out of his cold face and kept shaking his own head like a broken record, mumbling to himself, a chant of sorts, only he didn’t manage to cast a charm with it.

“It’s okay, though,” Keith went on, uncertainty falling from his mind like a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. “Hey, you…you’ll be fine, alright?”

“No—No, nothing…nothing’s alright. Stop…Keith, please, I—”

Words blurred with tears, sobs numbing his thoughts.

“You can’t—Don’t—”

“— _nything. —an..ear. Have to—something.”_

What…? Where had that come from? In Keith’s defense, thinking really wasn’t the easiest thing in the world right now, so it was totally fair that it took him a hot second to understand what was going on. When he did, though, his eyes flew open painfully.

_ The comms. _

“Shi…Shiro?”

Lance didn’t seem any less surprised than Keith himself.

“ _Lance? Lance, thank goo—ess.”_

It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough.

“L-listen, I don’t—I don’t know what to do. We’re trapped in here and—God, this has never—This is why I don’t engage in combat—I can’t do _shit_ I—”

“ _Lance, breathe. Where’s Keith?”_

He didn’t answer, but pressed the device a little deeper into his ear as if it would help with the poor, creaking sounds it made— At least it didn’t seem like it was working much better for him than for Keith. Lance’s whole body was shaking, eyes blown wide, lips parted. Every fiber of his body seemed to rebel against each other, an internal struggle between giving up and grasping this very last straw that they had.

“Keith is…”

Their eyes met, but Keith couldn’t focus, his hands not even obeying his order to let go of Lance. Keith felt frozen in place, his limbs unable to process his thoughts, his mind overflowing with sensations—fear, relief, desperation, peace, terror, pain, flightlessness—

“I’m doing…” he managed to press out, an act of considerate thoughtlessness. Sharp inhales could be heard even through the shitty communicators they were wearing. “…fucking peachy.”

“I’m sorry I’m so sorry this is all—This is all my fault, all because I—”

“Like shit is it your fault.”

There wasn’t a scolding for his choice of language. For once, he would’ve liked it.

“ _Where are you? …getting you out.”_

“No way. We’re somewhere in the middle of this—This whole disaster. B-between the crashed windows. I thought we might—Might get over, but…I can’t. We can’t. Just what—”

“ _Breathe. If you can see the ground—Where you—Drop something do—We’ll locate and find you. I promise.”_

That was by far the worst plan Keith had ever heard of, and considering the situation they were in, that meant a whole damn lot. It was also the only plan they had, because stupid Lance refused to get a move on, and everyone else would probably encourage that dumbass-behavior.

Keith was right. They  _ were _ the reckless ones. 

He let his head rest against the cold wall, considered just giving in to how tired he was, but through every blink, he saw eyes staring at him from nearby, frightened, quick glances to make sure he was still fighting—which he was, by the way; otherwise, he would’ve fallen asleep minutes ago.

“This…is so dumb,” Lance admitted while throwing some stuff out of the window, and Keith couldn’t help but chuckle. It looked so _ridiculous_ , although he knew that the situation was actually quite serious. “Don’t laugh, Mullet! Shit ain’t funny at all.”

Right he was.

“It me or…’s it freezing in here?”

Honestly, Keith didn’t mean much by the question—he was cold, in pain and supposed to talk to keep himself awake, so what else was he supposed to do, other than ask pointless stuff? Apparently, though, those few words set the world on fire—not literally, sadly, because then it would’ve been nice and cozy—because within a second, Lance was scooting closer again, already peeling himself out of the thin jacket he was wearing.

“Ugh, won’t help much, but…here, come on. M-move.”

Keith tried, too tired to fight back, pushed himself off the wall enough to let Lance frantically wrap him in the jacket, and fell back again. It was a big hit to his pride and dignity just how much energy those few movements had cost him, enough to send an embarrassed blush to his cheeks. Depending on someone else like this was foreign, awkward…and oddly satisfying. Being alone in here would, somehow, be so much worse.

“You still awake?”

“Mhm…”

He crashed against the body slowly sitting next to his, leaned into the warmth, cursed his head and legs and mind for not doing what they were ordered to. At least he was too busy trying to ignore the pain to actually think about his frustration much. All that mattered was to stay awake long enough for someone to fetch Lance and get the hell out of this shithole. Keith didn’t expect more, and he didn’t need anything else.

Or so he told himself.

“Hey, Keith…”

“Mhm…?”

“Why’d you go out of your way?” Lance cleared his throat, shifted a little and leaned in closer, wrapped his arm around Keith’s middle, fingers digging through fabric into skin. Shaking. “You could be…I don’t—I don’t know, out there, safe, miles from this—this shit we’re in now. I should’ve known this was a trap but—”

“I was…gonna quit,” Keith interrupted, aware that it was rude, scared that he’d lose his train of thought if he waited. “After this whole thing, I mean. Always…thought this life was…easy.” He shook his head, chuckled dryly, pressed his nose against the crook of Lance’s neck. “Then you…made it difficult.”

“Sorry?”

“No…”

Something wet dripped on his cheek, and Keith wondered if he was crying without having noticed. He raised a hand to his eyes, but nothing. He kept reaching, but was caught midair, before he could wipe the tears from Lance’s face. It hurt.

“It was…odd. I questioned stuff…myself…I wasn’t used to that.” 

Speaking hurt. Breathing hurt. Thinking  _ hurt _ . 

“Was horrible…but also…not? Ugh, what am I saying…”

The thoughts had been scary, out of his control, but putting them in words was even harder, forced him to acknowledge the truth he’d so long been trying to hide from—that he was breaking all the rules he’d slowly established for himself over the years, starting from _questioning things_ all the way down to _getting attached_. He brushed his nose against warm skin.

And,  _ god _ , was he getting attached. A little late for it to matter, he realized.

“Figured…maybe I wasn’t…cut for it anymore. This whole…mindless assassination.”

“Well, good.”

He scoffed and shook his head.

“Wonder what…I would’ve done then. Ah…I would’ve…gotten a dog. Or maybe…a hippo…after all.”

Skin against his own, fingers brushing away wild hair, trembling on his face like a soft shiver. A fit of panic. He was drowning. They were both drowning.

“Keith, I—” Lance’s voice was barely above a whisper, high-pitched and terrified and desperate. “I will—I’m gonna—I’ll get you that stupid hippo—Scratch it! Ten. Ten fucking baby hippos if you—If you promise you won’t die on me. Please, Keith, please please please don’t die on me, I…I can’t…”

“Ten…?” Keith frowned, or tried to. There was amusement in his voice, although speaking was torture. “Do you…know how…big they grow?”

“No. And I don’t care, I—I’ll get them anyway, and you! You’ll name them all and—Take care of them and—I don’t care how big they grow!”

He wished there were something clever to say, witty words to easy Lance’s pain, to calm him down from the panic he clearly couldn’t control any longer, but nothing came— Minutes passed, and they were stuck in a place that could collapse under them any second now. Not the ideal set-up for any lighthearted words, for hope.

Yet even so, although it defied any logic he’d told himself to live by, Keith tried.

Tried against the odds, against better knowledge, against the truth. Because he couldn’t handle it, the warm tears falling from Lance’s face to his, the shaking sobs quivering through both their bodies, their fear resonating in the air between them.

Keith tried.

“Guess I…might need some help…with ten. That’s…a lotta work, you know?”

He tried so _ , so _ hard.

“Y-Yeah, totally. I’ll help, okay? I’ll help you, just—Don’t give up now. Ugh, reducing me to a begging mess like this, I feel like—A crazy fangirl.”

Laughter bubbled up in Keith, painful but genuine. Even now, Lance couldn’t manage to stay serious for longer than half a minute; it was great, made everything  _ so _ much easier to endure. Anything was okay as long as the tears on his cheeks dried for good.

“Must be…disappointed then,” Keith tried to go with the beat. It wasn’t easy, his consciousness daring to slip from him any second now. “Not really…in the shape to…put on a show here.”

“Au contraire, Keith.” A warm finger on his chin made him frown and lick his lips; a pointless action, as it didn’t help against how dry they were. He leaned against it, the soft motion like a lullaby to his soul, singing soft _if only_ s and _what if_ s. “If anything, your show was—Way too authentic. It’s…it’s time to cut the act and…g-get back up, how’s that sound? Only a bit longer, I promise.”

“Mhm.”

“Keith, c-come on. Keep your eyes open.”

He couldn’t. Everything was  _ so _ tiring; breathing, speaking, his own slowing heartbeat pounding against his ribcage, the dizziness, the pounding headache right behind his eyes, even the shivers running through his body like sparks of electricity. He was overwhelmed by exhaustion, yet kept awake by fingers gently caressing his hair and skin. He wanted the pain to cease, but the comfort to stay.

“Hey…you know…what?”

“Hm?”

Silently, to himself, Keith wondered if the fuzziness in him was part of the impending unconsciousness, or the rational part of his mind giving in to the emotions he’d been trying to keep at bay. Whichever it was, it hardly mattered anymore. For just this one moment, after all the years filled with fighting and pretending…for once, he could be himself.

An odd concept, but a very welcomed one.

“I think I…”

Foreign, strange, repelling. Familiar, common, comfortable.

“I kind of…really like you.”

He accepted the mixture of embarrassment and guilt engulfing him—there wasn’t any other time for him to say this besides now, and yet it was all wrong. To say something so loaded in a situation so dire. Pressure where there should be relief. Force where there was room for only care.

“Goddamn it, Keith.” Lance’s voice broke, a far-away sound in the state Keith was in. “You…I…I’m not letting you go. I’m not _ever_ letting you go.”

As if to confirm that promise, arms held him close, shielded him from the cold and the dark and the panicked voices that soon reached them, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, Keith knew he still had it in himself to fight.

Not for himself, maybe.

But for a future.


	6. live

Sterile rooms were Keith’s favorite. They remained neutral to the mind no matter what state one was in. They never caused a sensory overload or triggered any sorts of emotions. Sterility was good; and yet, something was terribly wrong about the room he woke in, his eyes reluctantly obeying his order to scan the area. It was white—the walls, the ceiling, the sheets covering him. He tried to move but couldn’t, was held back by a strong pain seemingly slicing him open.

The sharp breath he drew didn’t go unnoticed; seconds later, there was a figure inching closer, a hand reaching out for him. He wanted to swat it away in his semi-blindness, but didn’t find the strength to.

“Keith?”

Worry swept with his name, an unpleasant feeling. It was rare that Shiro so openly showed his concern about Keith—or anyone close to them, really.

“What—” His mouth was drier than sandpaper, making him gasp for air. “Holy…shit. What happened?”

“Breathe, and relax. I’ll explain everything to you once you’re properly up. Take it easy for now.”

He saved himself the trouble of spitting out an annoyed reply, partly because he wasn’t in the mood to get reprimanded, but also because he feared choking on his words if he tried to speak. Speaking hurt, breathing hurt, thinking hurt—

It was like a déjà-vu.

There were a million questions on Keith’s mind, most of which he ignored for the sake of sparing himself the headache for now, but there was one he couldn’t ignore, and it had him prove, once more, that subtlety really wasn’t in his primary vocabulary.

“How am I…not fucking dead?”

_ Considerate  _ wasn’t high up in there either, by the way.

“Honestly? I don’t know. But you’ve always been stubborn, so I’m not surprised. Gave me heart-attack out there, Keith.”

He groaned, tried yet again to sit up, ignoring the _very_ disapproving look Shiro shot him. For what kind of job they both did, he was such a goddamn _softy_ sometimes, with his big puppy eyes and judging mom-stare. Then again, Keith had _actually_ almost died this time—it had never been this close before, even on bad days—so he figured he could deal with it for once.

“Didn’t do it on purpose.” At least not the _heart attack_ part. What he’d done to almost get himself killed…that had indeed been _on purpose_. Speaking of which, though—

“What about…everyone else? And how did you lie us out of this?”

Shiro cleared his throat and looked around the room, scanning for any form of surveillance. Although he didn’t seem to find any, he ended up shaking his head instead of answering the latter question.

“Matt is fine. Recovering still, of course, but he’ll be alright. Oh, you _do_ have a very furious young man waiting for you to wake up, though.” He looked…genuinely scared. Not frightened, but definitely worried. “Should I let him chew you out, or would you prefer I do it?”

“Again, I didn’t, you know, _almost die_ on purpose or anything.” Keith did, however, remember exactly why he’d done it, and with that all the embarrassing things he’d allowed himself to say in what had felt like his very last moments among the living. “You’re the one who said teamwork is everything, after all.”

“That I did,” Shiro sighed and crossed his arms. “Still, we need to work on your sense of self-preservation. That was way too brash and reckless—”

“Listen, I don’t care,” Keith cut in. “A second later? It might’ve hit him. I don’t care what either of you say to me, how much and how many times you confront me about it. If prompted, I’d do it again, no hesitation.”

Why…was that so oddly hard to say? And what was that look on Shiro’s face for, anyway? Keith’s head still hurt, so he hoped to have enough time to deal with this whole mess at a later point. For now, all he wanted to do was sleep and then get out of here—

He gasped and reached down to his legs. They were still numb, he didn’t think he’d be able to stand even if he tried, but there was something when he touched his thigh, a soft vibration, a sort of  _ feeling _ .

It was more than he’d felt after getting hit, so he took it as a very,  _ very _ good sign. It could have been more, and Keith wasn’t the most optimistic person to begin with, but anything more than  _ nothing _ was good in his book. He watched Shiro get up and reach towards the console on the wall. Ugh. Keith made an indignant sound.

“The faster we get you checked, the faster you’re out, so behave. And now listen to my rundown of what happened, because I don’t think the version in which you were part of this infiltration and murder spree is going to leave a good impression.”

_ Ugh. _

It was going to be such a horribly long day.  


 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Lance chewed Keith out anyway.

Screamed and shouted and cried and cursed, then hugged him, pulled away to give him a death stare, and hugged him even tighter.

“You’re gonna be the end of me, after all,” he explained dramatically, sighed and dropped onto the chair next to the bed. The faintest hint of a relieved smile ghosted on his lips.

“On a scale from one to ten,” Keith replied all business-like, mainly to drown out his own confusing excitement over Lance being alright. “How angry are you right now?”

“Solid eleven.”

Keith snorted and shook his head.

“This isn’t funny, dumbass,” Lance added with a disappointed pout. “You know what? Make it a twelve.”

But then he was smiling again, and the world was alright.

 

* * *

 

Although Keith had been working with Shiro and Pidge for years, it still fascinated him how well and quickly they could make up whole nets of lies, all perfect with fake ID cards, broken surveillance videos, and enough influence on the press that they wouldn’t have to worry. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Lance and him allegedly having worked in the office they’d almost died in, but it was, by far, better than landing their asses in jail for murder in multiple cases.

To his disappointment, they didn’t find out who exactly had detonated the bombs and nearly killed them in the process, but somehow, Keith seemed to be the only one worried about that.

“Don’t you think they might target us again?” he asked in a quiet moment, with everyone affected gathering in his hospital room. Pidge, Matt and Hunk started discussing the possibility of that, in a way that assured him they’d had the same argument at least half a dozen times already. Shiro, leaning against the wall with a pitiful smile, only watched them. Lance, dramatically posing in his chair, snorted and dug a finger into the bandaging on his shoulder. Keith swatted his hand away.

“Stop that.”

“Aww, alright, honey, because you asked so nicely.”

Pidge gagged. Lance didn’t seem like it bothered him—on the contrary, actually.

“To answer your question, though, _sweetcakes_.” He pointedly looked over to her now, an unpleasantly polite smile dragging his lips upwards. She gagged again, more graphically this time. He snorted once more, for good measure or something. “I think we’re fine for now. I know it sounds cocky, but I feel like they’d much rather stay out of my way than risk getting in it.”

“Confident, huh?” Keith teased, although he got the gist of it. It wasn’t the first time he came to understand that Lance was far more dangerous than his goofy nature gave away, if he really wanted to be. Staying out of his scope—literally—was the best thing anyone could do.

“I’m just saying it how it is. I couldn’t get out because on my own, I wasn’t _that_ dangerous.” He frowned, seemed to realize that that was actually not true, but went on anyway. “Now I’ve got all you equally dangerous people around, though, and I doubt anyone will willingly cross our combined paths,” he finished his explanation, looked up at Keith and back to his own shoulder, poked it again only to pull a pained face.

“Are you done being stupid? What exactly were you expecting?”

Instead of answering, Lance stuck his tongue out.

Good enough.

 

* * *

 

_ I don’t care how much and how many times you confront me about it _ , Keith remembered saying. This was not to suggest that he’d changed his mind about what he’d done, or regretted it in the slightest, but wow.

It was annoying.

He’d always known how persistent a person Shiro could be—Give him a reason to, and he makes you remember the absolutely stupidest, tiny mistake you made for weeks or months. Hell, he still frequently dug out the story about Keith dodging a bullet, dramatically and accusingly referring to it as  _ the matrix incident _ , and that had been…what? Four years ago?

So, yeah, Shiro was a force beyond measure, and Keith had known this long before the inevitable speech about taking better care of himself, taking it easy and letting someone else take care of him for as long as needed. That was fine—a bit tiring at times, but nothing he couldn’t deal with.

Pidge, Matt and even Hunk, a guy Keith had known for such an incredibly short time, acted like worried parents or siblings or something as well, but at least they did so a bit more subtly. He didn’t get much of a break from them, either, but sometimes, they all went into nerd mode and, blissfully, forgot about him even being there. So those three were quite manageable as well, really.

And then there was Lance.

Oh, lord.

Now, the levels of  _ annoying _ he could go weren’t new to Keith in the slightest, but there was something distinctively different about Lance in comparison to the others,  _ especially _ if they were on their own. He did sport a judgmental look most of the time, and he did try and order Keith around and stared him down, but the worst part was—

_ Ugh. _

The worst part was that he looked so  _ hurt. _ Guilty and apologetic and pained and—

And that was just cheating.

 

* * *

 

Keith didn’t like change much. It meant adjusting to new circumstances, it meant reconsideration and uncertainty. More often than not he would have claimed change was a negative thing. 

This time, surprisingly, it didn’t seem to be.

Part of the reason for that was how reliant he was on other people. That alone changed his entire life—Things he would’ve done alone any other day now turned into some sort of patchwork-family-event. He knew he should be grateful for all the help, and deep down, he was, but sometimes, it was just  _ too much _ .

“I bought you some new, fuzzy socks,” he heard a voice call out for him, and it took his all not to just roll his eyes and growl. He wanted to appear annoyed, but he knew a wave of embarrassment hit his cheeks. “Figured you’d like that. Bet you wear socks in bed or some shit.”

Lance sounded offended, so Keith didn’t argue, but—

Yeah, he did. So what? Much more convenient if he had to get up all of a sudden. Why did he feel the need to justify it? Wearing socks to bed was totally, entirely reasonable. Why did Lance even  _ care _ about that, anyway?

“It’s okay, not all of us can have reasonable fashion-sense.” For some reason, Lance eyed Keith’s hair while saying that, quickly arched both eyebrows in what could only be described as a _judgmental_ fashion, and pursed his lips.

Keith didn’t like change much.

But he was getting used to it.

 

* * *

 

Relying on other people didn’t sit well with Keith. 

He’d always kept his distance from others—call it considerate or rather shut-off, he really didn’t care either way—but that was, frankly, not so easy when his movement was limited to the few steps he could _finally_ manage to take on his own to, say, grab coffee from the kitchen or drag himself from the living room to his bed. While he couldn’t deny how much he needed someone to help him with important chores, he really didn’t understand why there was always _someone_ there.

Every time of the goddamn day.

Like right now.

“I’m heading out,” he heard Shiro’s voice from somewhere behind himself, but didn’t even bother looking up from his phone. Keith knew what was coming next, yet it still made him roll his eyes. “I think Lance mentioned he’ll be there in a few, so I guess you won’t get yourself killed until then.”

“I’m a fully-functional human being, Takashi. Leave me alone.”

“Allegedly.”

He tried to dodge from the hand ruffling his hair, but failed. He also tried to fight against the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, but failed just as badly.

“You know we do it because we care.”

He did.

 

* * *

 

Keith got used to having company way more often than not.

“Doesn’t it annoy you?”

Lance gently pushed one wild streak of hair out of Keith’s face, holding him close by the waist with the other. They were lazing off on the sofa, the TV providing nothing but white noise.

“What?”

“Your—Ugh, y’know?” Lance gestured. “Your bangs poking your eyes out?”

Keith shook his head slightly, nestled against him closer. He’d never even given it much thought—he cut his hair when it got too long, and otherwise really didn’t bother much with it, although lately, it was on his mind a bit more frequently; like when there was a hand running through it tenderly, combing it out of his face or neck and pulled it up so it wouldn’t be an inconvenience for him.

“Fine, I get it,” Lance announced dramatically. “Gotta do everything myself, after all.”

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, bodies pressing against each other’s, hands carefully brushing Keith’s hair. He wasn’t even surprised when he ended up with a pretty braid hours later.

Having company wasn’t even that bad at all.

 

* * *

 

“Have you ever considered moving away? To somewhere…quiet I guess.”

Keith frowned and shook his head. He hadn’t, actually. While he’d come to terms with the fact that his life would never be quite the same as before, he usually left the changes to someone else.

Not like they let him decide much for himself anyway.

“Not really.”

It sounded nice, though. Somewhere quiet, far away from the memories and reminders of the past. He hadn’t thought about it before, but maybe he could start.

He knocked their shoulders together playfully, a smirk playing around his lips.

“So? Where are we headed?”

 

* * *

 

Well…

_Quiet_ was one word to describe Lance’s destination. Not the one Keith would’ve chosen if prompted, but nonetheless, somehow, fitting for the place they found themselves in. There were vast lands of nothingness in the middle of nowhere, with houses sprinkled so scarcely that sometimes, they couldn’t see one before another was far out of sight. Keith hadn’t ever really considered living so far outside of the city, but when they stopped on abandoned property, with a small house and a big barn and the vague leftovers that had once been stables, he couldn’t help but think:

_ It’s perfect. _

What an odd concept.

“This…isn’t what I expected,” Keith admitted while chunkily climbing out of the car, supporting himself on the door and then the roof. The place didn’t exactly scream _fancy_ right now, there were more weeds than proper grass, but before his mental eye, he could imagine what it might have once looked like.

The same seemed to apply to Lance, because he looked around with a fond, knowing smile on his face, memories catching up with him after what must have been countless years.

“You used to live here?” Keith asked, careful not to cross any lines. It had to be a difficult topic in some way, and he wasn’t really known for being all-too considerate, but he tried.

“Mhm. Used to be my family’s.” Lance sighed, then realized what he’d said and shook his head before Keith could apologize for being blunt. “They’re okay, they’re fine! Just…my abuela got sick and, y’know, at the end of the day, ‘s kinda safer to be in the city where hospitals and all are close.”

“Ah.”

“No sad faces, let’s check how the inside looks.”

Their movement was wordlessly coordinated—Lance putting an arm around Keith’s shoulders, supporting and taking pressure from his legs, Keith leaning in and adjusting himself so he could walk painlessly and with as little effort as possible. It was still far from ideal, but he knew how lucky he was to even be able to move still, so he refrained from complaining about it  _ too much _ .

Besides—and he kept this very much to himself: It meant he could exploit the bodily warmth close to his own and still give it an entirely rational explanation instead of being called out on his feelings.

The house was empty, unsurprisingly, with not much of a reminder on how it had once looked, but standing in the hallway alone visibly threw Lance back to old times, if his crooked eyebrow and smile were anything to go by. It was nice, pleasant to see him like this—at ease, happy, without any of the masks he’d been wearing before. He wasn’t pretending to be cool and suave and on top of the world anymore; sure, he still joked around about all these things, but both of them knew where they were standing and why, and that, somehow, made it all so much more genuine.

“God, the memories…” He snickered, hiding it behind a hand. “Been a while.”

“Isn’t this the opposite of the life you lived? Glamorous, loud, lively.”

“Maybe.”

He led them over to the staircase and forced Keith to sit. It was a relief, so he didn’t complain about being ordered around—perhaps he even _needed_ it.

“But…you like that life, don’t you?”

“Sure, I guess.” Lance shrugged, raised an eyebrow and looked around the hallway, tapping his fingers together, looking for the right words. “But I don’t have to give it up, you know? Still close enough to the city to hit the crowds.” He winked and displayed finger guns. “Bull’s eye.”

He looked very happy with himself.

“Please,” Keith begged, although unable to hide his amusement. “Never say that again.”

But even though Lance was primarily joking, the answer was there—he’d be fine out here, yet not content. There was no reason for him to tear himself away from the big city life he seemed to love so much, and Keith would have been damned rather than take it away from him. He shook his head, willed his legs to work with him, and got to his feet. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but he managed, gestured dismissively when Lance offered his help.

“It’s nice and all. Appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t want to strip you off your happiness.”

“Oh, _Keith_.”

Lance rolled his eyes and grabbed Keith’s arm anyway, but only to pull him up the stairs instead of letting him leave the house. Wherever they were headed now, it seemed to be important, if not life-changing.

“I love crowds. People. I like having all eyes on me, putting on a show and flooding social media with my unmeasurable need to show off.”

“Wait, I got this. Let me put it in your words.” Keith had to think for a moment, but then got it. “ _We been knew.”_

Lance wiped a non-existent tear from his eye and pulled Keith closer, a hug that wasn’t really one, but felt like it anyway.

“They grow so fast…”

Of course Lance found this insanely hilarious.

“Really, though. All that means a lot to me, but it’s not…going away? I can still do it. And there are things that matter more than constantly being in the spotlight.”

“Like what?”

He rolled his eyes, brought them to a halt when they reached the top of the stairs, and raised an eyebrow skeptically. After a good ten-or-something seconds of silence, he seemed to realize that Keith meant that question, and sighed dramatically before moving on.

“Okay, let’s play dumb then. Here, I’ll show ya the room I shared with my bro.”

They crossed the empty halfway over to one of the many old doors, still decorated with children’s drawings, a colorful dream catcher hanging from the center of it. It was handmade, too, from the looks of it, and Lance ran a finger over it slowly, dwelling in memories.

“They left it…”

He opened the door with a quick swing and gasped audibly, shocked by what he saw. To be fair, it made sense, because unlike the rest of the house, the room they were facing was anything but empty.

There was furniture. A bed, a closet, a desk, a chair. There were drawings hanging on the wall, curtains on the window. If it weren’t for the silence, the lack of liveliness all around the place, one could have almost believed that someone still lived here.

Keith was the first to speak.

“Think they expected you to come here one day?”

“Y-yeah. Probably? That’s my only guess.”

He led them over to the bed, his legs highly displeased by their travel up the stairs, and sat down on the edge of it. They both stared at _some_ undefined spot on the wall across from themselves, both in slight disbelief about what was happening.

Lance, maybe, because he hadn’t expected to find his own room furnished, as if waiting for his return.

Keith, definitely, because all of it was unreal and foreign, like entering a whole new world.

“I missed it,” Lance admitted, then snorted shortly. “Probably just as much as being up on a stage.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Because Keith wasn’t sure if it was. Missing something, to him, sounded like pressure more than anything.

“It’s good,” Lance assured him and leaned closer. “It’s really good.”

And although Keith didn’t say it, didn’t taint the blissful silence with pointless words, they both, somehow, knew that he couldn’t have agreed more.

 

* * *

 

“So, what do you think?”

“Mhm.”

“ _Keith_.”

“Mhm.”

 

* * *

 

They never really spoke about it, but the decision was unanimous anyway. Out here, miles and miles away from the loud, loaded, crowded life of the city, in their own blissful bubble, they created a place worth being called  _ home _ . Their friends dropped by here and there—And Keith didn’t  _ admit _ that he missed them whenever they couldn’t make it, but they still got the sentiment anyway.

It wasn’t perfect, because he didn’t believe that such a concept truly existed, but if anything, it came awfully close.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got a present for you.”

Lance’s wording, voice and posture screamed self-righteousness, poise and confidence. The smirk on his lips was mischievous more than genuine, causing Keith to play it safe and put up a skeptical frown in return.

“What is it?”

“Surprise, _surprise_ , I can’t possibly tell you. Come on!”

He got to his feet, neglecting the beautiful cup of steaming-hot, black coffee he’d just started indulging in, entirely unsure what to make of this. Knowing Lance, it could have been an actual surprise, some sort of big event he’d planned for months prior—But it could also be a pair of hand-knitted socks waiting on the living room table to be picked up.

Not like those weren’t nice or anything, but Keith didn’t understand the idea of making a big fuss of it.

They passed by the living room, though, and left the house instead. That already surpassed a good ninety-five percent of Lance’s  _ surprises _ in terms of suspense.

“Okay, yeah, so, I’ll have you know this was in no way easy to achieve, and if I suddenly ever disappear forever, I’m probably in jail waiting for you to bail me out.”

Keith squinted.

“What did you do?”

“Mhhh, I wonder.”

“Lance. What’s the surprise?”

He came to a halt and turned around, hands stemmed into his hips and an eyebrow raised.

“You _do_ realize that would kinda defeat the purpose, right? Sometimes you’re such a dork.”

Before Keith could retort, Lance stuck his tongue out and jogged ahead, bitch he was, leaving a physically-restricted Keith behind to wonder to himself and be scared for both their lives. Considering the amounts of dangerous shit they’d been through both together and individually, he hoped that it couldn’t be  _ too _ bad.

Then again, it was  _ Lance _ …

Who, by the way, had already long but disappeared in the generously-sized shack behind the house which they, as far as Keith remembered—and he had a good memory, mind you—had yet to put to any kind of use.

Suspicious. Worrisome.

Eventually, Keith caught up, sending a silent prayer to some entity he still didn’t believe in, and peeked inside before going in as well. On first sight, there was nothing dangerous to be seen, and Lance was peacefully hunkered down, mumbling something to himself that was hard to understand, hovering over the makeshift-pool he’d made some weeks ago. Keith remembered the explanation as _who knows? Maybe one day we’ll have a dog. He’d like a pool. Do you know how hot it can get in this place?_

“…here. No. Come on, don’t be difficult. Hah!”

Lance got back up, back still turned away, and cheered for himself, holding…something in front of his body. Keith squinted and cautiously moved closer, prepared for, hopefully, everything.

Then Lance turned around.

Oh.  _ Oh. _

“Is that—”

Keith did a double-take, realized his mouth was wide open, but found himself unable to do  _ anything _ about it. This was… Unbelievable. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh, cry or a combination of both, so he decided on a small but genuine smile, and on taking a step closer.

“Are you serious?”

He tried his best to sound teasing, if only to hide his flustered embarrassment. Lance’s self-assured grin didn’t help much.

“Dead-serious, Keith. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually…I don’t know what to say.”

“ _Well._ The man, the legend, I’m not known to disappoint, you know?”

He was joking, sure and obvious, but nonetheless, Keith found himself nodding, too busy staring and beaming at the small creature that was being shoved into his arms. His first thought was: adorable. His second:

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Lance.”

Needless to say, he failed in sounding authoritative while saying it, fully engulfed in the tiny, slightly confused animal he was holding in his hands. He mentally prepared himself for a lot of dubious methods involved in making all of this possible.

“In my defense,” Lance said with a raised finger. “They’re from an animal shelter somewhere down in Africa. Illegal breeding stuff. Look. They don’t even grow ivories. And apparently they don’t grow as big as they normally should—can’t confirm though.”

That…actually sounded like something good—not the illegal breeding, of course, but the fact that they’d been saved from a horrible place.

Keith blinked once.  _ Wait. _ He blinked again.

“ _They?”_

Unsurprisingly, Lance said nothing, just kept staring with what could be described as a genuine yet frightened smile. Keith could practically make out the comedic sweat-drop forming on his temple.

“Lance.”

Nothing.

“You better have dropped a number in t-minus five minutes.”

“Three, okay? Three is the number! Listen, look, it’s totally—I mean. Keith please, don’t—Don’t look at me like that. You can’t just have _one,_ that’s cruel! And two? They’d get bored. Three makes sense, it’s—It’s logical. Here, _here_.”

He took a step to the side and dramatically pointed to the mini-pool, which Keith now realized had  _ never _ been intended to be for a dog or any other pet. He knew quite enough about hippos and their needs, so he knew it made sense to have a place for them to stay hydrated in. What did surprise him though was the fact that Lance had…thought of all that?

“You put some real research into this, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m offended by how you imply you didn’t expect that. _Offended_ , you hear? Anyway, put the little guy back and look at the other two.”

He was, quite obviously, trying to shift Keith’s attention far,  _ very _ far away from  _ Hey, guess who illegally imported illegally bred hippos just to keep a promise?  _ Sadly, it worked, but in Keith’s defense, it was really,  _ really  _ hard not to turn into an overwhelmed mess at the sight of three tiny hippos staring up at him with their huge eyes.

One weakness.

He looked over to Lance who was smiling proudly, chin raised and the corners of his lips curled up contentedly. It was, quite frankly, pretty damn cute.

Keith snorted.

Two weaknesses.

 

* * *

 

“No, Keith, just _no_. You can’t—I won’t—Absolutely not, no, _no,_ it’s a big _NO_ from Lanceylance and don’t you dare, nope, don’t you dare give me that look, because this is definite and—No. Keith, _stop_.”

Not that Keith knew what kind of look he was giving, but he made sure to keep it steady.

“We’re not—We can’t name them Blue, Red and Black. That’s—That’s just wrong!”

He kept staring.

“I—No. Ugh, for heaven’s sake, _fine_.”

 

* * *

 

“Really, Lance? _Kosmo?_ What would you name a cat? Wanda?”

“Oh, excuse me, mister _I name my three hippos by our former codenames, which are fucking colors_. Didn’t know you had a right to judge.”

Point taken.

Keith still wouldn’t call their dog Kosmo.

Who did something like that?

 

* * *

 

They were lazing off on the sofa, not a care in the world, both buried under the weight of an oversized dog, and a tabby cat named Wanda— _ ’You asked for it, Keith’ _ —Both unable and unwilling to get up and be productive.

Not that they had much of a reason to.

“Hey, grumpy?”

Keith only hummed as a reply, his face buried deep in the crook of Lance’s neck, blissfully taking in his engulfing warmth and pleasant smell, leaning against long fingers gently combing through messy strands of hair. It was the ideal setting—Why taint it with meaningless words?

“Can’t say it when you’re not looking.”

He rolled his eyes, sighed in both contentedness and displeasure, but eventually obeyed, propped himself up on one hand to raise an eyebrow skeptically, not ashamed to admit that he’d rather go back to his previous position immediately.

Or—Oh.

Warm lips tenderly brushed against the corner of his own, down to his chin and back up, resting against his smile.

“Mhh…’m glad you’re here.”

It was such a simple statement, yet held so much meaning. They’d come a long way.

“Me too.”

He stole another kiss, smile against smile. There was neither force nor pressure, only genuine care and innocent bliss.

It was good. It was  _ right _ . And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

There were a lot of perks to Keith’s life. The best one? 

It was simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _CATCH ME CRYING IN THE CLUB!_  
>  I can't believe it's over. ;_; I'm so thankful about everyone I met during this event, all the fun we had while writing all the fics and doing the arts and ALL OF IT.  
> Can't wait for the next one.  
> Thanks again to daifha for illustrating the fic, and Silvamoon for beta-reading. <3  
> You can find the art, including the banner-art for the fic, again over [here](https://daifha.tumblr.com/post/184778163092/here-are-my-pieces-for-the-klancepinefest-i-was)!
> 
>  
> 
> _See you all around!_


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